THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PRIVILEGE 

A  NOVEL  OF  THE 
TRANSITION 


BY 

MICHAEL  SADLEIR 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

Ubc  Ikntcfeerbocfeer  press 
1921 


Copyright  1921 

by 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Sfr* 


To 
ELIZABETH 

for  obvious  reasons 

and  to  the 

gracious  memory 

of 

WILLIAM  BECK  FORD 
OF 

FONTHILL 

who  found  in  kindliness 
and  in  the  egoism 

of 

secluded  splendour 

the 

true  gentility 

I  DEDICATE 

this  book. 


ADVERTISEMENT 
TO  THE  AMERICAN  EDITION 

When  this  book  appeared  in  England,  I  prefixed  a 
brief  note  disclaiming  any  idea  on  my  part  of  having 
written  a  "probable"  story.  By  this  I  laid  no  claim  to 
the  creation  of  fantasy.  Indeed ,  fantastical  fiction  even 
at  its  best,  falls  short  of  perfection  in  that  it  lacks  one  of 
the  three  essentials  to  the  true  novel  as  I  conceive  it. 
These  essentials  are  plot,  characterization,  and  period 
psychology.  The  story  must  hold  attention  by  its  in- 
cident; the  imaginary  society  to  which  the  reader  is  intro- 
duced must  consist  of  individuals  of  coherent  personality; 
the  affinity  of  that  society  to  the  age  in  which  it  is  supposed 
to  exist  must  be  recognizable.  My  attempt  to  explain 
that  Privilege  does  not  pretend  to  detailed  actuality  but 
rests,  nevertheless,  on  a  basis  of  motivation  proper  to  its 
contemporary  setting  was  in  many  quarters  misunder- 
stood. Because  in  the  United  States  more  study  is  de- 
voted than  in  England  to  the  history  and  development  of 
literary  forms,  I  hope  for  my  readers'  indulgence  in  an 
attempt  to  indicate  briefly  where  Privilege  departs  from 
the  present  day  fashion  in  novels  and  why  it  does  so. 

The  epithets  of  literary  criticism  are  dangerous  play- 
things. If  I  say  that  this  is  a  "romantic"  novel,  I  use 
a  word  of  which  no  two  definitions  are  the  same.     And 

vii 


viii  Advertisement 

yet  I  can  think  of  no  word  more  suitable,  for  surely  every 
one  of  the  great  romantic  novels  of  the  nineteenth  century 
derives  part,  if  not  most,  of  its  effects  from  atmosphere  or 
decor,  and  these  are  the  elements  of  romanticism  that  I 
have  striven  to  recapture.  Privilege  is  "  written  up" 
to  the  high  level  of  its  own  emotionalism.  The  very  land- 
scape is  conceived  in  a  spirit  of  somber  luxuriance.  So 
deliberately  to  contrive  interaction  of  staging  and  plot 
seemed  to  me  not  only  legitimate  but,  to  the  achievement  of 
my  desired  effect,  essential.  Some  critics  have  spoken  of 
the  book  as  ''precious";  others  as  "over-elaborate";  I 
comfort  myself  with  the  kind  words  of  again  others,  who 
feel,  as  I  mean  them  to  feel,  the  suitability  to  an  impres- 
sive and  tragic  theme  of  a  fastidious  and  purposely 
rhythmic  prose.  Privilege  is  stylistic;  intentionally 
so.  But  I  maintain  that  it  is  not  for  that  reason 
inevitably  damned. 

More  serious — because  I  had  thought  them  anticipated 
by  my  foreword — are  the  attacks  of  those  who  find  the 
speech  of  my  characters  unreal  and  their  behavior  in- 
credible. If  it  is  necessary  that  the  conversation  of 
characters  in  a  novel  should,  word  for  word,  be  trans- 
latable into  speech  and,  as  such,  ring  truly  and  uncum- 
brously,  then,  indeed,  Privilege  goes  under.  It  sinks 
willingly  and  in  good  company,  leaving  in  the  air  and 
sunshine  those  ultra-modern  narratives  in  which  sen- 
tences are  given  exactly  as  spoken  and  fleeting  thoughts  as 
fleetingly  entertained — disjointedly,  perhaps  without 
subject  or  predicate,  a  breathless  series  of  dashes  and  in- 
terrogation marks.  On  the  score  of  behavior  I  am  more 
sensitive.  Would  the  Barbara  of  Chapter  VI  act  as 
does  the  the  Barbara  of  Chapter  IX?     I  think  she  would, 


Advertisement  ix 

because  in  the  Barbara  of  my  imagination  and  of  my 
heart  there  is  a  touch  of  the  divinely  wanton,  lacking 
which  woman  is  but  an  incident  in  a  man's  life,  pos- 
sessed of  which  she  is  the  most  passionate  disillusion- 
ment of  his  experience.  Would  the  Michael,  to  whom 
family  honor  is  dearer  than  life,  offer  the  honor  of  his 
wife  to  save  the  reputation  of  his  house?  Again  I  think 
so.  For  the  fanatic  has  his  own  sense  of  proportion, 
and  that  herein  attributed  to  fanaticism  such  as  Michael's 
is  neither  impossible  nor  improbable. 

Of  a  somewhat  different  nature  is  the  charge  that  Privi- 
lege contains  a  serious  error  of  fact.  Toward  the  end 
of  the  book  there  is  mention  of  a  possible  revival  of  an 
English  peerage  by  the  son  of  a  man  married  to  his 
brother's  widow.  From  numerous  quarters  I  have  been 
assailed  for  suggesting  an  impossibility.  My  ' '  blunder ' ' 
is  catalogued  with  one  made  by  Florence  Barclay.  To 
share  a  dunce's  stool  with  so  triumphant  a  best-seller  has 
its  fascination  which,  however,  I  must  beg  leave  to  resist. 
American  readers  already  familiar  with  English  law 
will  forgive  my  explaining  here  that,  although  a  man  may 
in  my  country  marry  his  deceased  wife's  sister,  he  may 
not  marry  his  deceased  brother's  wife.  The  anomaly  is 
ludicrous  but  exists.  The  characters  in  Privilege  take 
steps  to  acquire  nationality  in  a  land  where  their  mar- 
riage may  be  legally  solemnized.  Any  children  of  that 
marriage  would  be  legitimate.  There  is  no  necessary  bar 
to  the  succession  of  a  non-national  to  an  English  peerage; 
the  doubt  is  whether  a  claimant  born  of  such  a  mar- 
riage as  this  could  succeed  in  his  claim.  Expert 
opinion  assures  me  that  it  is  not  possible  to  prejudge  the 
result  of  such  a  claim.  Wherefore,  although  my  hero  may 


x  Advertisement 

be  suggesting  an  unlikely  thing,  he  is  suggesting  nothing 
impossible  when  he  speaks  of  an  attempt  by  his  child 
{yet  unborn)  to  revive  the  title  that  he  himself  proposes  to 
disuse. 

In  conclusion,  let  me  slate  categorically  that  Privi- 
lege is  not  a  tract  for  the  times.  It  teaches  no  lesson, 
urges  no  political  creed,  presents  no  "real  people'1  in 
guise  of  characters  of  fiction.  It  is  merely  a  story,  born 
of  the  strange  allurement  of  passing  greatness,  which 
sets  an  imaginary  love  drama  against  the  tapestry  of  our 
turbulent  and  changing  England.  The  characters  are 
at  once  of  their  own  age  and  of  any  age.  Their  trousers 
and  their  petticoats,  their  tobacco  and  their  slang  are  of 
the  twentieth  century,  but  their  temptations,  and  their 
longings  are  those  of  men  and  women  any  time  this 
thousand  years. 

Michael  Sadleir. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. — The  Braden  Succession 

3 

II. — Whern  Abbey 

22 

III. — Portman  Square  . 

36 

IV. — The  Bad  New  Times  . 

52 

V. — The  Family  at  War    . 

67 

VI. — The  Passing  of  Harold 

85 

VII. — Privilege 

119 

VIII.— A  House  Party     . 

152 

IX. — The  Tenth  Commandment 

194 

X. — The  End  of  Carnival 

222 

XI. — Treachery     . 

253 

XII. — The  Passing  of  Michael 

283 

XIII. — The  Passing  of  Whern 

3IO 

XIV. — Love  in  Wintertime    . 

331 

PRIVILEGE 


PRIVILEGE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    BRADEN    SUCCESSION 


'''  Man  that  is  born  of  a  woman  hath  but  a  short 
time  to  live,  and  is  full  of  misery.  He  cometh  up 
and  is  cut  down  like  a  flower;  he  fleeth  as  it  were 
a  shadow  and  never  continueth  in  one  stay." 

The  words  hovered  one  moment  in  the  air  and 
the  next,  jerked  on  to  the  back  of  the  sulky  wind, 
were  borne  faintly  wailing  towards  the  long,  wet 
woods  of  Whern.  The  parson,  his  surplice  twitched 
hither  and  thither  by  the  gusts  of  wind,  the  leaves 
of  his  prayer-book  fluttering  beneath  his  restrain- 
ing thumbs,  bent  his  head  a  fraction  lower  and 
continued  his  monotonous,  muted  rendering  of 
the  burial  service. 

1 .  .  .to  take  unto  himself  the  soul  of  our  dear 
brother  here  departed,  we,  therefore,  commit  his 

3 


4  Privilege 

body  to  the  ground ;  earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes, 

dust  to  dust " 

With  a  strange  feeling  of  detachment  I  focused 
before  my  eyes  the  ironic  discomfort  of  the  scene. 
Through  a  veil  of  mist  spotted  with  drops  of  rain, 
and  as  though  they  were  set  in  the  frozen  perspec- 
tive of  a  stereoscope,  I  saw  my  brothers,  my  sisters, 
the  handful  of  relatives,  and — at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance— the  crowd  of  villagers.  The  black  clothes 
cut  stencils  on  the  grayness — curious  rigid  stencils 
of  conventional  form  so  that  the  figures  had  little 
more  human  significance  than  the  yew  trees  dotted 
among  the  graves.  And  then  the  chasm  of  the 
grave  itself — our  grave,  our  father's  grave,  the 
grave  of  Black  Whern — a  foolish  pit  lined  with 
green  and  white,  scored  irrelevantly  across  the 
sodden  turf.  Ironic  it  was  that  Black  Whern  who, 
when  there  was  not  room,  forced  a  way  and  let 
the  weaker  give  place,  should  now  at  his  end  en- 
counter a  throng  even  he  could  not  displace — the 
throng  of  the  dead.  He  would  have  his  stately 
tombstone  in  the  church,  but  his  body  would  rot 
among  those  of  carters  and  woodcutters  with  little 
to  mark  the  place  of  its  decomposition  except, 
maybe,  a  headstone  a  little  more  ornate,  a  railing 
a  little  more  elaborate  than  those  on  either  hand. 


The  Braden  Succession  5 

"  The  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  and  the  love 
of  God  and  the  fellowship  of  the  Holy  Ghost  be 
with  us  all  evermore." 

The  parson  closed  his  book  and,  his  hands 
clasped  before  him,  bowed  his  head  over  the  grave 
in  prayer.  What  prayers  was  he  saying  for  Black 
Whern?  Did  he  remember  dinners  at  the  Abbey 
when  the  old  man  would  insult  his  cloth,  taunt  his 
submissiveness,  make  mock  of  his  embarrassed 
silences?  Did  he  remember  the  great  day  when  the 
fox  took  cover  behind  the  chancel  screen?  Did  he 
see  once  more  hounds  streaming  up  the  nave  with 
my  father  in  their  midst  kicking  and  swearing — 
for  no  huntsman  dared  gainsay  Black  Whern  how- 
ever foul  his  hunting  manners — the  moment  of 
ugly  scrimmage,  the  shatter  of  glass  as  one  of  the 
lamp  standards  caught  a  brandished  crop,  the  kill 
in  the  chancel  itself  under  the  very  eyes  on  the 
one  hand  of  Black  Whern  tenibly  alive,  swarthy, 
and  exultant,  on  the  other  of  the  pale  effigies  of 
his  ancestors,  couched  stiffly  tier  above  tier  in  the 
rigid  armor  of  their  time?  What  pravers  indeed 
could  be  said  for  Black  Whern? 

Then  in  my  cynicism  I  looked  at  the  mourners. 
Harold — Lord  Whern  at  last — held  his  silk  hat 
unflinchingly  and  his  too  full  lips  were  set  into 


6  Privilege 

something  approaching  gravity.  He  was  like  the 
dead  man,  with  all  the  cruelty  gone  to  sensuality, 
all  the  rugged  strength  to  the  lax  lines  of  good 
living.  I  wondered  if  he  were  moved.  Likely 
enough.  Men  of  his  type  are  easily  swayed  to 
pompous  solemnity.  As  a  child,  as  a  youth,  he 
had  gone  through  alternating  fits  of  sentiment  and 
selfishness.  Probably  for  the  moment  he  felt 
genuine  grief,  but  even  so  rare  a  profundity  could 
not  make  him  dignified.  He  was  handsome  and  a 
fine  figure  of  a  man,  but  he  was  soft — at  once  soft 
and  reckless,  a  product  of  great  traditions  and  too 
much  facility  for  self-indulgence.  Well,  well — 
doubtless  there  had  been  Bradens  like  him  before; 
but  some  forgotten  flicker  of  family  pride  scorched 
my  heart  one  moment  with  regrets.  Michael 
would  have  made  a  worthier  heir,  thin-lipped,  in- 
tractable though  he  was.  He  was  holding  himself 
very  straight,  and  his  fine,  pale  brow  and  narrow 
eyes  showed  neither  sign  nor  pretense  of  grief. 
Rather  it  was  contempt  that  he  felt  for  the  whole 
scene — contempt  primarily  for  the  corpse,  then 
for  the  shivering  clergyman,  for  the  crumbling 
tower,  for  the  humble  headstones  planted  crazily 
about  the  grass  (like  the  almonds  on  Ursula's  ice 
pudding  that  July  night  five  years  ago — the  foolish 


The  Braden  Succession  7 

memory  hurt  as  keenly  as  though  it  had  been 
yesterday  that  her  bitter  words  had  driven  me  into 
the  stifling  streets  to  limp  lonely  to  my  rooms). 
...  I  riveted  my  mind  on  the  present  and  found 
that  my  attention,  unsupported  by  conscious 
reasoning,  had  left  Michael  and  passed  to  Monica. 
Arrogantly  she  held  herself,  beautiful  in  her  black, 
her  golden  hair  like  the  flash  of  a  bird  in  flight 
under  the  brim  of  her  small,  defiant  hat.  Rakish, 
almost,  that  hat,  in  view  of  the  occasion,  but 
wonderfully  Monica.  Cold  she  looked,  cold, 
proud,  magnificent — and  again  my  cynicism  smiled 
inwardly,  gloating  a  little,  for  I  knew  Monica  for 
the  loose,  flashy  thing  she  was,  whose  extravagances 
weie  the  delight  of  keyhole  whisperers,  whose  ship- 
wreck on  some  shoal  of  prudery  every  muck-raker 
of  the  servile  Press  that  at  present  fawned  about 
her  little  shoes  looked  for  and  forward  to.  Poor 
Monica!  But  she  had  fearlessness  and  a  nobility 
that  in  those  early  days  I  was  too  shallow  to  detect. 
And,  finally,  when  the  crash  came  she  held  her 
head  high  and  smiled  that  brilliant  smile  so  that 
I,  for  one,  loved  her  in  her  failure  as  I  had  never 
loved  her  during  the  vivid  years  of  her  success. 

And  then,  Anthony.     Perhaps  it  was  only  his 
greater  youth  that  gave  him  transparency  and 


8  Privilege 

charm.  But  Harold  was  gross,  Michael  pitiless, 
Monica  blatant,  in  comparison  with  his  graceful 
reverence.  His  fair  hair  and  long  pale  face,  the 
curve  of  his  arm  and  relaxed  right  leg  blended 
with  the  sadness  of  the  day,  where  the  others  were 
hostile  blots  on  the  compassionate  shroud  of  au- 
tumn. Anthony  in  normal  life  was  languid  and 
a  thing  of  mannerisms.  He  collected  jade,  went 
to  confession,  wore  black  pyjamas  with  a  scarlet 
belt.  And  even  now,  in  my  softened  mood,  I 
seemed  to  detect  a  whiff  of  the  scent  he  used  and, 
as  I  smelt  it,  the  gulf  between  me  and  this  my 
family  widened  once  again  and  Anthony  became 
as  much  an  interruption  as  the  rest,  perhaps  the 
more  repulsive  for  his  very  elegance. 

The  group  swayed  and  broke.  Harold  was 
moving  towards  the  churchyard  gate.  One  by 
one  the  others  turned  to  follow.  I  stepped  back 
and  looked  about  for  Mary.  A  few  moments 
before  I  had  seen  her  standing  demurely  beside 
Monica,  her  black  coat  dowdy  (or  maybe  beautiful 
with  the  beauty  of  a  different  world)  in  comparison 
with  the  elaborate  simplicity  of  the  other's  fur- 
trimmed  velvet.  Mary  was  the  youngest  of  us, 
at  that  time  just  eighteen  to  Anthony's  twenty, 
to  my  twenty-seven.    Even  those  of  us  who  were 


The  Braden  Succession  9 

privileged  to  be  children  of  Black  Whern  could 
only  guess  at  the  secret  of  those  seven  years  during 
which  our  mother  had  had  no  child.  Our  nurses, 
perhaps,  and  old  Studland,  the  butler;  the  London 
specialist,  a  handful  of  relations  .  .  .  they  may 
have  known  the  truth.  I  gleaned  something  of  it 
when  I  came  of  age  because — well,  I  suppose  they 
thought  my  withered  foot  entitled  me  to  a  word 
of  explanation.  Yet  Anthony  was  sound,  though 
delicate,  and  Mary  frankly  healthy.  An  odd  thing, 
heredity.  I  was  often  struck  by  the  difference 
the  four  elder  of  us  and  the  two  who  formed  the 
postscript  of  the  family.  All  the  harshness  of  the 
breed  seemed  to  have  ended  with  me.  Anthony 
had  pliability,  and  Mary  gentle  persistence,  where 
we  others  had  turbulence  or  arrogance  or  reckless 
levity  or  self-protective  irony.  Perhaps  because 
I  came  last  of  the  first  litter  (the  brutal  metaphor 
was  my  father's  before  it  became  a  commonplace 
of  statesmanship)  I  was  more  sympathetic  to  the 
younger  ones  than  were  my  seniors.  Certainly  I 
loved  Mary  as,  to  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking, 
I  had  loved  no  one  else,  and  Anthony's  effeminacy 
called  to  the  banter  that  was  my  kindliness  more 
than  to  my  scorn.  That  the  adaptable  may  be- 
come flaccid  and  the  quietly  persistent  fanatical, 


io  Privilege 

after  events  taught  but  too  thoroughly.  Perhaps 
I  should  have  foreseen  them;  if  so,  my  obtuseness 
has  been  punished. 

I  looked  about  for  Mary  and,  as  I  looked,  she 
crept  from  behind  the  shrub  at  the  grave  head  and, 
casting  a  flower  into  the  hole,  stood  for  a  moment 
solitary  on  the  brink,  her  hands  clasped  lightly, 
her  face  impassive.  She  was  about  to  hurry  away 
when  she  saw  me  watching  her. 

"I  should  like  to  walk  home,  Dick,"  she  said. 
"Would  it  bore  you  too  much?" 

We  explained  to  the  others,  waiting  impatiently 
by  the  short  line  of  motors  in  the  road.  Monica 
shrugged  and  stepped  into  the  limousine.  One  by 
one  the  "mourners"  found  places  and  with  a  throb 
and  a  screech  the  cars  slid  towards  Whern.  The 
men  touched  their  hats  and  one  or  two  old  women 
curtsied,  as  I  limped  up  the  village  street  by 
Mary's  side. 

The  hamlet  of  Whern  St.  Nicholas  lies  to  the 
south  of  the  Abbey  grounds  in  a  shallow  dip 
between  the  still  more  southerly  downland  and 
the  gradual  slope  to  the  lip  of  the  curious  crater 
in  which  the  home  of  my  ancestors  was  situated. 
The  road  begins  to  rise  directly  one  leaves  the 
schoolhouse  on  the  left-hand  side  but  does  not, 


The  Braden  Succession  " 

for  the  ordinary  traveler,  rise  all  the  way,  as  it 
turns  half  a  mile  northward  of  the  village  and 
traces  a  switchback  easterly  course  skirting  the 
crumbling  wall  that  marks  the  boundary  of  the 
Abbey  woods.  Mary  and  I  entered  these  woods 
by  a  gap  in  the  wall  and  began  to  pick  our  way 
upwards  through  the  damp  leaf  drifts  and  among 
the  lichenous  tree  trunks. 

The  year  was  rotting  to  its  end.  Along  the 
carpet  of  trodden  leaves,  brown-yellow  with  an 
occasional  slashing  of  vivid  green,  the  trees  crept 
like  mildewed  ghosts,  an  endless  procession  of 
noiseless  specters,  emerging  from  one  tangled 
mistiness  only  to  blend  instantly  with  another. 

The  solitude  of  this  familiar  woodland  seemed 
peopled  with  melancholy  sprites.  Each  raindrop 
clinging  to  a  twig  was  a  tear  for  the  decay  of 
Whern,  each  gurgle  of  the  spongy  ground  a  sob 
for  the  late  autumn  of  an  ancient  race.  I  saw  our 
beloved  woods  with  new  and  older  eyes.  The  few 
and  brief  visits  to  Whern  which  I  had  paid  during 
the  last  ten  years  had  been  visits  of  duty,  and  I 
had  found  their  constraint  and  antagonism  endur- 
able only  thanks  to  a  deliberate  keeping  alive  of 
memories  of  happier  childhood.  Indeed  more  than 
once  I  had  sought  out  some  corner  of  the  woods — 


12  Privilege 

an  abandoned  pumphouse  which  had  been  our 
brigands'  cave,  an  overgrown  quarry  in  which  we 
had  hunted  grizzlies,  practiced  rock-scrambling, 
picnicked  on  golden  summer  afternoons — to  brace 
myself  for  an  evening  in  my  father's  company. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  I  let  slip  make-believe  and 
left  to  the  past  the  lure  of  its  own  witchery.  I  saw 
Whern  and  its  woods  and  ourselves,  its  inheritors, 
sinking,  as  the  old  year  was  sinking,  towards  an 
inevitable  December.  The  blaze  of  autumn  is  a 
painted  flame,  without  heat,  without  core;  Black 
Whern  for  all  his  apparent  strength  was  a  braggart 
and  a  thing  of  hollow  sound.  He  was  dead,  and 
the  October  leaves  were  wind-tossed  and  stained 
with  damp.  Where  they  had  flaunted  their  tran- 
sient glory  were  now  naked  twigs;  even  the  few 
that  clung  still  in  foolish  obstinacy  to  the  trees 
hung  limply  and  askew.  In  the  seat  of  Black 
Whern  was  Harold.  And  there  were  tears  in  my 
heart  because  of  the  great  past  of  Braden  and  be- 
cause death  is  angry  sadness  to  the  young. 

We  had  not  spoken  since  entering  the  woods. 
Our  silence  and  the  gloom  of  my  own  thoughts 
prompted  me  to  that  awkward  levity  which  was 
my  treacherous  refuge  from  embarrassment. 

"Thank  God,  that's  over!" 


The  Braden  Succession  13 

Mary  did  not  answer  but  bent  her  head  and 
hurried  forward.    I  cursed  myself  for  a  blunderer. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mary?" 

"Oh  Dick — nobody  cared.  Not  one  of  you 
cared  an  atom.    Poor,  poor  father!" 

"He  was  an  old  man,  child,  and  a  lonely  one — 
Don't  grudge  him  his  rest." 

"Grudge  it!    If  you  knew  how  I  envied  it!" 

"Mary!    To  talk  like  that ! " 

She  turned  on  me. 

"You  haven't  to  live  on  here — with  Harold." 

Her  bitterness  startled  me  and  my  uneasiness 
increased  to  see  her  quiet  eyes  dark  with  dread. 

"But,  child — you  can  come  to  Monica " 

"She  would  thank  you  for  saying  that  and  so 
do  I!" 

"Well  then,  to  me." 

"  I  may  do  that,  Dick  dear,  sometime.  But  you 
don't  really  want  me — and,  besides,  I  cannot  run 
away  before  the  battle." 

She  was  tired  and  nervous  and  this  intensity 
was,  according  to  my  then  superficial  judgment, 
too  foreign  to  Mary  to  be  real.    So  I  merely  said : 

"That  is  a  promise,  then.  You  can  come  to  me 
when  you  wish,  and  I  will  try  to  veil  my  reluctance 
to  receive  you." 


i4  Privilege 

Perhaps  the  conventional  irony  did  service  on 
that  occasion.  At  any  rate  Mary  brightened  and 
we  spoke  no  more  of  the  funeral  nor  of  its  problems. 


II 


I  suppose  the  others  had  been  in  an  hour  or  more 
when  we  reached  the  Abbey.  Lunch  had  draggled 
off  into  cheese  and  crumbled  bread,  with  Anthony 
like  some  fastidious  bird  still  picking  delicately  at 
its  fringe.  He  explained  that  the  relations  had 
gone  .  .  .  trains  .  .  .  only  "us"  left.  .  .  . 
While  waiting  for  fresh  food  and  too  lazy  to  follow 
Mary's  lead  and  go  upstairs  to  change,  I  wandered 
towards  the  billiard  room  in  search  of  further 
company.  Across  the  hall  through  the  front  door 
I  saw  a  small  mauve  car  like  an  enameled  snail 
waiting  in  the  drive.  At  that  moment  Monica 
appeared  by  the  baize  doors  of  the  library  corridor ; 
they  snapped  to  behind  her  with  their  curious 
sound  that  suggested  an  angry  dog  with  no  bark. 
She  took  no  notice  of  me  but  going  to  the  foot  of 
the  staircase  removed  the  cigarette  from  her  mouth 
and  shouted : 

"Fli— im!" 

There  was  no  reply. 


The  Braden  Succession  15 

"Fli — im!  Where  the  devil  have  you  got  to? 
I'm  ready!" 

Still  no  reply. 

"Fli— i— i— im!" 

"Better,"  I  remarked.  "Much  better.  But 
remember  to  trill  on  the  high  note  and  to  throw 
the  head  well  back." 

She  turned  to  see  who  was  speaking. 

"  Hello,  Dick,"  she  said  carelessly.  "  Got  in  from 
your  weep- walk  ?   Have  you  seen  Flim  anywhere  ? ' ' 

"Anything  is  possible,"  I  replied.    "What  is  it?" 

Ignoring  me  completely  she  began  to  shout  once 
more,  this  time  with  better  fortune. 

"All  right,  all  right!  I'm  coming,"  said  a  male 
voice  a  little  testily,  and  a  small  springy  man  with 
cheeks  shaved  black  and  tight  close-cropped  black 
moustache  hurried  from  the  far  corner  of  the  hall. 
He  was  wearing  very  new  herring-bone  tweeds  of 
striking  cut  and  a  stiff  pink-lined  turnover  collar 
with  a  bow  tie.    Altogether  a  nasty  little  man. 

"God  bless  the  man!"  cried  Monica.  "Where 
the  hell  have  you  been?  Here  am  I  waking  the 
dead " 

"I  am  even  surprised  you  remember  there  are 
dead  to  wake,  Monica." 

The  sardonic  interruption  came  from  one  of  the 


1 6  Privilege 

small  balustraded  galleries  that  on  the  first  floor 
landing  overlook  the  central  octagon  of  the  hall. 
Michael  leant  a  little  forward  to  see  the  effect  of 
his  remark,  and  I  could  see  the  righteous  cruelty 
of  his  contemptuous  mouth.  Monica  turned  her 
back  angrily,  but  I  noticed  that  her  voice  was 
sensibly  lowered  when  she  spoke  again: 

"Shall  we  push  off  right  away?" 

Her  friend  nodded  and  muttered  inaudibly, 
glancing  round  for  a  servant.  One  of  the  men 
crossed  the  hall  to  the  dining-room  with  the  pre- 
liminaries of  lunch  for  Mary  and  myself. 

"  Hullo — you  there ! "  shouted  the  little  stranger. 
"Fetch  me  my  coat,  and  be  quick  about  it!" 

I  chuckled.  Verily  there  were  rents  already  in 
the  garment  of  our  inheritance.  The  footman — 
he  was  a  junior  and  nervous — vanished  into  the 
dining-room  and  reappeared  immediately  in  search 
of  the  coat.  I  shrank  back  in  the  shadow  of  a 
pillar  lest  the  departing,  if  unbidden,  guest  should 
see  me — and  delay  his  going.  Michael,  from  his 
vantage  post,  observed  in  silence.  Monica  had 
gone  through  the  outer  hall  to  the  front  door  and 
was  standing  on  the  steps  gazing  sulkily  at  the 
tearful  sky.  With  some  struggling  the  stranger 
settled  his  coat  to  his  liking,  placed  a  Homburg 


The  Braden  Succession  17 

slightly  askew  upon  his  head,  and  swaggered  ab- 
surdly towards  his  car. 

When  the  mauve  snail  had  crawled  out  of  sight 
I  crossed  the  hall  to  the  dining-room  and  began 
lunch.  Mary  came  down  in  a  few  moments.  We 
ate  determinedly. 

"Coffee  in  the  billiard  room?" 

I  told  the  man  and  followed  Mary  thither.  In 
front  of  a  huge  wood  fire  Harold  sprawled  his 
great  bulk  on  a  lounge  chair.  Whisky  stood  by 
his  side.  The  hearthrug  seemed  solid  dog,  for,  on 
it,  in  a  fair  imitation  of  their  master's  attitude, 
lay  an  Irish  wolf-hound,  three  spaniels,  and  a 
rough-haired  terrier.  Over  the  huge  and  hideous 
room  brooded  the  spirit  of  stupor  after  gluttony. 
Harold  greeted  us  without  emotion. 

"Hullo!    Had  lunch?" 

We  advanced  to  the  outworks  of  the  nearest  dog. 

"Cold   ..."    I  said  suggestively.    "Isn't  it?" 

Harold  grunted.  Then  with  a  crooked  grin  he 
hoisted  himself  to  one  elbow. 

"Scared  of  the  dogs,  eh?  Poor  little  Polly.  She 
shan't  be  plagued  with  nasty  dogs.  Get  away, 
you  brutes!" 

His  kick  cleared  a  pathway  to  the  fire.  Mary 
slipped  to  the  curb  and  settled  on  the  fire-seat. 


1 8  Privilege 

From  the  edge  of  the  billiard  table  I  swung  my 
legs. 

With  the  coffee  came  Michael,  cool  and  correct 
in  a  short  black  coat.  It  was  like  Michael  to  have 
changed  his  morning  coat  and  nothing  more.  He 
walked  quietly  to  the  fire,  trod  on  the  tail  of  the 
fattest  spaniel,  stepped  neatly  over  the  fire-seat 
and  wedged  his  shoulders  against  the  chimney 
breast,  his  feet  against  the  curb.  Harold,  from  the 
shapeless  mass  of  his  old  shooting  suit,  glanced 
sullenly  upwards.  He  was  doubtless  painfully 
aware — for  even  I  had  a  foreboding — that  Michael 
was  about  to  hold  forth. 

"Where  is  Monica?" 

Harold  shrugged  sleepily. 

"Who  was  that  little  swine  with  her  in  the  hall?  " 

"In  the  hall,"  replied  Harold. 

"What  do  you  mean — in  the  hall?"  asked 
Michael  crossly. 

"Trying  to  answer  your  question,  old  chap," 
grumbled  Harold.  "You  asked  where  Monica 
was.  I  replied,  'In  the  hall,'  a  reply  which,  on 
your  own  showing,  is  correct." 

Michael  sniffed. 

"No — seriously,  Harold.  You  must  speak  to 
Monica.     It's  rotten  bad  form  to  import  a  little 


The  Braden  Succession  19 

bounder  like  that  on  the  day  of  father's  funeral 
and  then  go  screaming  for  him  all  over  the  house 
as  if  it  were  a  railway  station.  You're  the  head 
of  the  family." 

Harold  grinned. 

"What  a  prig  you  are,  Michael!  As  if  it  mat- 
tered. He's  not  a  bad  fellow  either,  is  little 
Grayshott.  Damn  fine  horseman.  He  told  me  of 
a  horse   ..." 

Michael  turned  to  me. 

"Dick,  for  God's  sake,  say  something!" 

I  was  apt  to  shirk  on  these  occasions  and  for 
the  moment,  although  I  was  with  him  on  this  par- 
ticular point,  Michael's  tactlessness  made  me 
hate  him. 

"'Railway  station'  is  very  good,"  I  said  reflec- 
tively. "  I  have  long  wanted  to  know  what  Whern 
reminded  me  of.  Of  course — a  railway  station. 
Perhaps  Monica  thought  it  was  St.  Pancras  and 
wanted  a  porter." 

Harold  guffawed. 

"Monica's  quite  capable  of  wanting  half  a 
dozen  porters  if  they  were  good-looking,"  he 
said. 

Mary  shifted  in  her  place  and  glanced  appeal- 
ingly  towards  me.    Michael  darted  a  furious  look 


20  Privilege 

at  Harold,  shook  himself  free  of  the  chimney-piece, 
and  walked  quickly  from  the  room. 

Clearly  the  subject  required  changing. 

"Well,  Harold,  what's  the  next  move?  Are  you 
going  to  make  a  coronation  speech  to  the  tenants?  " 

"God!"  replied  Harold,  "I  see  myself." 

Anthony  lounged  into  the  room. 

"Exquisite!"  he  exclaimed  mincingly.  "The 
purple,  browns,  and  greys  .  .  .  And  the  sad 
menace  of  the  down.  .  .  .  Harold,  the  old 
brandy  is  finished.  I  was  constrained  to  finish 
my  lunch  sans  liqueur." 

I  condoned.     Harold  sniffed  loudly. 

"You  smell  like  a  girl,"  he  growled. 

Anthony  smiled  gently. 

"Parjum  cT amour — what  is  more  delicate?  The 
frail  white  flesh " 

Mary  got  up  and  hurried  to  the  door.  On  the 
threshold  she  turned  passionately. 

"Father  is  dead,"  she  cried,  "and  you  are  his 
sons   ..." 

Her  voice  broke  and  she  vanished  from  sight. 

Harold  sniggered. 

"Dramatic,"  he  said.  "She  gets  on  my  nerves, 
that  girl.    Too  damn  pernickety." 

"Only  Victorian,"  drawled  Anthony.     "Were 


The  Braden  Succession  21 

she  not  one's  sister  one  would  say  bourgeoise. 
But  there  is  infinite  freshness  in  virtue.  Indeed, 
maidenhood  is  getting  fashionable  again." 

"It's  never  been  very  cheap,"  sneered  Harold. 

"Gross — gross,"  murmured  Anthony. 

And  once  more  I  chuckled. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHERN  ABBEY 


If  I  write  something  now  of  the  Whern  I  knew 
and  loved,  it  is  perhaps  as  much  to  convince  my- 
self of  what  I  won  when  I  lost  it  and  to  brush  away 
from  the  memory  of  the  crowded  years  that  fol- 
lowed my  father's  death  the  cobwebs  of  wistful 
sentiment,  as  to  provide  a  proper  setting  for  my 
narrative.  The  "Dream  Palace"  that  one  reads 
of  in  the  letters  of  its  creator,  the  fantastic  erec- 
tion— adorable  in  its  very  absurdit}*- — in  which  I 
was  born  and  in  which  I  spent  my  childhood,  has 
vanished  now  even  more  completely  than  has 
Beckford's  Abbey  of  Fonthill,  its  inspiration  and 
its  prototype.  What  strange  misfortune  pursues 
things,  animate  and  inanimate,  that  defy  the  cus- 
tom of  their  time?  Has  conformity  a  divine  sanc- 
tion after  all?  While  they  remained  decorous 
children  of  their  age  the  Bradens,  in  their  unob- 

22 


Whern  Abbey  23 

trusive  way,  prospered.  One  erratic,  decadent 
genius,  twenty  short  years  of  feverish  eccentricity 
— and  the  centuries  of  steady  if  stupid  growth 
counted  for  but  a  fraction  of  their  lasting.  Lancelot 
Braden  died  loathsomely  under  soaring  vault  of 
his  mighty  house  not  three  months  after  the  last 
touch  of  gilding  had  dried  on  the  weather  vane  of 
the  northern  tower.  Geoffrey,  his  nephew  and 
successor  and  my  grandfather,  was  killed  in  the 
Crimea.  My  father,  an  ironical  exception,  lived 
out  his  passionate  life  to  its  forlorn  and  solitary 
end.  Subsequent  events — the  fun  grew  fast  and 
furious — are  my  story.  Many  a  time  have  I  felt 
the  grim  justice  of  my  melancholy  on  that  wet 
woodland  walk  with  Mary,  of  my  sense  of  strange 
and  desolate  happenings  brooding  over  Whern  and 
over  Braden.   .    .    . 

In  a  great  cup  of  the  Wiltshire  hills,  under  the 
lee  of  the  western  slope  and  on  the  bank  of  a  shal- 
low lake  made  by  a  stream  that  traversed  the 
arena  from  north  to  south,  there  were  erected 
in  the  eleventh  century  a  Cistercian  Abbey  and 
cloister  which  took  their  name  from  the  hamlet  of 
Whern  lying  in  the  adjoining  valley.  The  foun- 
dation was  not  a  rich  one,  as  the  place  was  at  once 


24  Privilege 

remote  and  too  near  Sarum  to  flourish  more  than 
modestly.  Its  obscurity  did  not,  however,  save 
it  at  the  Reformation,  and  its  lands  and  buildings 
were  bestowed  by  the  Crown  on  Sir  Richard 
Braden,  whose  father  had  joined  Henry  Tudor  on 
his  march  to  Bosworth  Field  taking  in  his  train 
young  Richard  and  a  company  of  yokels  from  his 
home  in  the  Welsh  marches.  The  lad  by  his 
skilful  parade  of  shrewd  economy  at  the  expense 
of  other  people  won  the  approval  of  the  new  king 
and,  with  the  coming  of  Henry  VIII.,  was  knighted 
with  a  place  at  court.  The  bestowal  of  Whern 
paid  the  loyal  debt  of  gratitude  for  a  variety  of 
services,  rendered  staunchly  and  with  tact,  and 
began  the  transfer  of  the  Braden  home  from  Shrop- 
shire to  Wiltshire,  which  by  the  end  of  the  six- 
teenth century  was  finally  accomplished.  It  seems 
that  a  succession  of  unambitious  and  none  too 
durable  houses  sheltered  those  ancestors  of  mine 
that  held  Whern  from  the  accession  of  James  I.  to 
the  time  of  the  French  Revolution.  Perhaps  every 
second  generation  pulled  down  and  began  afresh. 
Certainty,  at  stated  intervals,  the  ruins  of  the  old 
Abbey  were  pillaged  for  material  and  the  original 
and  noblest  Whern  of  all  faded  into  a  tattered 
fragment  of  ghost-gray  loneliness,   while  across 


Whern  Abbey  25 

the  green  basin  of  the  wooded  hollow  house  after 
transient  house  blossomed  and  died. 

Then  came  the  reign  of  great-uncle  Lancelot, 
the  birth  of  the  Braden  peerage,  the  meteor  splen- 
dor of  golden  Whern  and — the  zenith  passed — the 
tilt  on  to  the  final  downward  slope  to  decadence. 

I  ha.ve  spoken  of  Fonthill  as  the  inspiration  and 
the  prototype  of  Whern.  It  was  more  than  that. 
It  was  its  material  as  well  as  its  spiritual  forbear, 
some,  part  of  Whern  being  actually  fashioned  of 
the  marble,  stone,  and  glass  of  the  notorious  Non- 
Such  wonderland  of  an  hundred  years  ago.  This 
makes  it  all  the  more  surprising  that  in  an  age  of 
rapid  tourism  so  few  would-be  visitors  stopped 
their  cars  for  an  hour  or  two  at  the  high  cross- 
roads on  the  down  or  forced  the  slumbrous  peace 
of  Whern  Royal  to  stay  a  night  at  the  really 
admirable  inn  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  house 
which  was,  with  all  its  faults  of  beauty,  undoubt- 
edly unique. 

Deliberately  I  concentrate  on  Whern  and  not  on 
its  creator,  for  this  is  the  story  of  my  brothers  and 
sisters  and  myself  and  not  of  our  ancestors.  But, 
freely,  the  tale  of  Lancelot  Braden,  first  Viscount 
Whern  ("Great-Uncle  Lance"  we  always  called 
him,  the  familiarity  mirroring  the  admiring  repul- 


26  Privilege 

sion  in  which,  by  tradition,  we  held  his  memory), 
would  make  finer  and  more  sensational  reading 
than  that  of  our  more  discreet  shortcomings. 
Some  other  time,  perhaps  .  .  .  Enough,  here, 
to  state  that  Lancelot  Braden,  vastly  rich,  physi- 
cally beautiful,  saw  in  the  pioneer  gestures  of  the 
great  William  Beckford  a  hint  for  his  own  super- 
eccentricity  ;  that  he  became  first  an  admirer,  then 
a  protege,  finally  an  adoring  intimate  of  the  Sultan 
of  Lansdowne  Tower;  that,  whereas  London  knew 
him  only  as  a  figure  of  sinister  and  remote  licen- 
tiousness, to  Bath  he  was  a  frequenter  of  the  trea- 
sure house  in  Lansdowne  Terrace,  a  companion 
of  old  Beckford  on  his  rides  along  the  down,  an 
enthusiast  for  sale  catalogues,  rare  manuscripts, 
pictures  of  foreign  schools.  Concerning  the  strange 
friendship  rumors  went  about;  in  explanation  of 
the  bestowal  by  George  IV.  on  Lancelot  of  a  peerage 
the  coffee  houses  knew  something  more  substantial 
and  less  savory  than  even  the  basest  rumour.  .  .  . 
But  all  this,  again,  is  irrelevant.  Let  us  get  back 
to  Whern. 

It  is  history  that  in  1823  Beckford,  mainly  for 
reasons  of  economy  but  partly  also  from  disgust 
at  realizing  the  frauds  practiced  on  him  by  his 
architect,  sold  the  entire  Fonthill  estate,  including 


VVhern  Abbey  27 

the  famous  Abbey,  to  a  Mr.  Farquhar.  It  is  also 
history  that,  not  long  after  completing  his  pur- 
chase, the  new  owner  saw  the  great  tower  fall  down 
(for  the  second  time  in  its  brief  period  of  life),  and 
decided  to  cut  his  losses  and  sell  the  mansion  for 
building  material.  At  this  point,  where  history 
turns  to  things  of  greater  moment,  Braden  family 
pride  takes  up  the  tale.  Under  other  names,  and 
unknown  either  to  Farquhar  or  to  Beckford, 
Lancelot  Braden,  then  twenty-five  years  old, 
bought  a  large  part  of  the  more  decorative  elements 
and  caused  them  to  be  transferred,  circuitously  and 
unobtrusively,  over  the  hills  to  Whern,  which  was 
not  many  miles  away.  He  was  no  fool  and  made 
a  good  bargain.  He  argued  that  Wyatt,  however 
dishonest  in  his  furnishing  of  the  hidden  essentials 
of  good  building,  was  not  likely  in  those  externals 
visible  and  of  greatest  interest  to  the  owner  to  use 
anything  but  the  best  quality  of  material ;  further, 
that  the  second  collapse  of  the  structure  would  so 
rudely  have  shocked  the  facile  admiration  of  the 
crowd  for  Beckford  and  his  works  that  prices 
might  be  expected  to  rule  low.  On  the  whole  he 
argued  soundly  and  became  possessed  of  a  quantity 
of  fine  carving,  rare  marbles,  and  unusual  archi- 
tectural miscellanea  at  a  reasonable  figure.     The 


28  Privilege 

way  was  then  open  for  the  building  of  yet  anothet 
Whern. 

And  what  a  Whern!  An  extravagant  facade, 
three  soaring  towers,  a  nightmare  chapter  house, 
cloisters,  and  flying  buttresses.  ...  On  the 
hills  above  Oban  on  the  west  coast  of  Scotland 
stands  a  foolish  parody  of  a  Roman  coliseum — 
but  built  of  rosy  stone  some  two  feet  thick.  From 
below,  the  idiot  edifice  seems  to  be  cut  from  card- 
board. And  so  it  was,  in  less  degree,  with  Lancelot 
Braden's  Gothic  abbey.  One  felt  that  every  arti- 
fice had  been  used  to  extend  that  ribbon  of  crisped 
and  crocheted  exoticism  as  far  as  possible  along  the 
northeastern  slope  of  the  wooded  basin.  At  the  same 
time  the  house  had  no  depth ;  it  was  flush  with  the 
drooping  margin  of  the  woods;  a  demented  vision 
of  the  medieval  age,  slung  like  a  painted  cloth 
along  the  ancient  Wiltshire  hill. 

I  loathe  its  memory  and  yet  I  loved  it.  There 
is  a  point  when  improbability  becomes  logic  once 
again.  Maybe  the  astounding  contrast  between 
Lancelot  Braden's  abbey  and  the  moldering  shred 
of  ruined  dignity  across  the  tranquil  lake  had  in 
itself  something  of  greatness.  Maybe,  also,  some 
spark  of  my  great-uncle's  feverish  allegiance  to 
the  Gothic  style  (sad,  misguided  fanaticism  that 


Whern  Abbey  29 

thought  to  recapture  spirit  by  reproducing  trap- 
pings only)  burnt  always  like  a  mystic  lamp  within 
the  temple  of  his  fashioning  and,  by  its  glimmer, 
drew  my  pilgrim  spirit  to  the  shrine  it  served. 

But  I  think  in  reality  my  love  for  Whern  was 
partly  love  for  Braden,  partly  yearning  fondness 
for  the  English  country,  that  no  defilement  can 
rob  of  its  sweet  soundness.  On  snowy  days  when 
the  wooded  slope  glittered  with  frost  jewels,  when 
the  frozen  lake  was  like  a  sheet  of  polished  pewter 
athwart  the  black-green  of  the  iron-hard  turf;  in 
May  when  the  leaves  sang  their  color  part  in  the 
spring  symphony  and  the  marshy  ground  by  the 
stream  was  powdered  with  meadow  saxifrage  and 
marigold;  in  summer  rain,  when  through  the 
streaming  curtain  of  the  rain  the  old  abbey  and 
the  climbing  woods  drooped  in  the  weeping  heat; 
in  the  pale  melancholy  of  October  sunlight,  when 
the  whole  Whern  arena  seemed  sinking  to  sensuous 
sleep  under  the  caressing  mist,  when  even  the  new 
house  took  on  the  unearthly  fineness  of  a  mirage- 
city,  when  the  trees — from  palest  yellow,  through 
red  and  brown  to  dark  defiant  green — bent  like 
high  tiers  of  praying  women  beneath  the  slow 
veils  of  the  mist — my  home,  because  it  was  home 
and  yet  not  only  because  it  was,  had  loveliness 


30  Privilege 

and  Englishry  and  my  heart  was  wrung  for  it, 
being  forsaken  of  its  age. 


II 


Whern  Woods  cover  the  whole  rim  of  the  arena 
in  which  the  Abbey  stood,  spreading  to  the  level 
bottom  on  the  inside  and  some  way  down  the 
outer  slopes  to  south,  west,  and  east.  On  the 
north  there  is  no  outer  slope,  the  rim  of  the  crater 
being  the  edge  of  a  high  plateau  of  downland  over 
which  in  winter  blow  black  winds  to  rattle  the 
bare  boughs  of  the  twisted  trees  that  mark  the 
outskirts  of  the  wood,  and  then  to  slant  their 
bitter  course  diagonally  downwards  to  the  frozen 
lake.  The  titanic  fancies  of  great-uncle  Lancelot 
did  not  spare  the  woods,  but  the  power  and  age  of 
their  beauty  had  absorbed  his  freakishness  and 
given  it  that  melancholy  charm  which  is  the  lure 
of  all  human  handicraft  abandoned  by  its  creators 
and  subject  to  the  nature  it  provoked.  Thus, 
apart  from  the  usual  scattering  of  small  classic 
temples,  the  usual  moss-grown  fauns  and  nymphs 
in  glade  and  dell,  there  existed  (and  for  all  I  know 
may  exist  to  this  day)  a  chain  of  fishponds — five 
or  six   of   them   on   descending   levels — created, 


Whern  Abbey  31 

doubtless,  to  satisfy  our  great-uncle's  sense  of 
monastic  fitness.  Wide  flagstones  edged  these  ob- 
long ponds  in  which  two  feet  of  water,  filmed  with 
weed,  lay  stagnant.  Decorative  gratings,  masking 
the  overflow  from  one  pond  to  another,  were  long 
since  choked  with  slime  and  mud  and  rust. 
Grasses,  pushed  into  life  between  the  flags, 
dropped  nonchalant  untidy  heads  over  the  edges 
of  the  paving.  The  ponds  were  in  a  shallow  valley 
from  which  the  woods  held  back  in  humorous 
contempt.  The  spring  that  fed  them  was,  in  our 
day,  little  more  than  a  stirring  of  dampness,  but 
it  must  have  survived,  for  I  never  remember  the 
ponds  being  dry.  I  suppose  that  under  the  blind 
surface  of  the  weeds  a  senile  flow  of  water  was  at 
work,  humbly  secret,  patiently  struggling  to  fulfil 
the  dream  of  the  man  who  first  yoked  it  to  his 
will.  I  shudder  a  little  now  at  the  thought  of 
wading  in  those  fetid  pools.  But  as  a  boy  I 
taunted  Monica  with  the  best  of  them  because 
she  shrank  from  dirtying  her  white  feet  in  the  pulp 
of  the  clinging  slime.  Harold's  favorite  game  was 
to  take  the  whole  chain  of  ponds  in  a  series  of 
flying  leaps  so  that  mud  and  water  splashed  the 
bushes  on  either  hand  and  our  sisters  and  girl 
guests  fled  shrieking  out  of  range.     Naturally  I 


32  Privilege 

was  debarred  from  this  amusement,  but  perhaps 
the  limited  range  of  bullying  possibilities  made  me 
doubly  ingenious.  At  any  rate  I  well  remember 
sitting  on  a  plank  across  the  lowest  and  dirtiest 
pond  and  holding  Anthony  head  downwards  over 
the  water  until  he  promised  to  give  up  some  boyish 
Naboth's  vineyard  that  I  coveted.  I  was  strong 
in  the  arms  and  thighs  and  his  struggles  were 
fruitless.  Whether  I  achieved  my  purpose  or 
what  that  purpose  was,  I  no  longer  recall.  Why 
does  one  remember  the  methods  of  torture  but 
neither  the  object  nor  the  end  of  it?  I  can  under- 
stand Inquisitors  not  being  themselves  always  very 
perfect  Catholics. 

Another  much-loved  legacy  of  great-uncle  Lan- 
celot's was  the  miniature  feudal  fortress  on  the 
crag.  In  one  part  of  the  woods  the  hill  is  so  steep 
that  there  is  an  outcrop  of  rock  and  quite  a  decent 
little  cliff.  Ingeniously  perched  on  an  outstanding 
rocky  bluff  our  enthusiastic  ancestor  had  caused 
to  be  built  a  Norman  keep  with  turrets  and  bar- 
bican. The  whole  affair  was  not  forty  feet  in 
height,  but  its  folly  among  the  shrubs  and  moun- 
tain-ash and  tufts  of  bilberry,  the  hollies  and  oaks 
and  woodland  commonplace  of  Whern  obscurely 
fascinated  even  our  oarbarian  boyhood.    I  could 


Whern  Abbey  33 

hardly  approach  it  without  a  thrill  and  I  think  we 
all  fell  uneasily  silent  as  we  clambered  up  the  woods 
towards  the  rocky  corner  where  it  stood,  peering 
through  the  trees  for  a  first  glimpse  of  its  rough 
stonework,  catching  our  breath  at  the  imagined 
sight  of  a  face  framed  in  one  of  the  three  narrow 
windows  of  the  tower.  Psychologists  might  detect 
prophetic  imagination  in  our  youthful  terrors,  for 
Otranto  (as  we  called  it)  was  to  play  a  grim  part 
in  the  lives  of  all  of  us.  I  prefer  to  think  that  the 
subconscious  influence,  if  such  existed,  was  the 
malignancy  of  Great-Uncle  Lance  rather  than  our 
own  sense  of  coming  tragedy. 

Finally — and  at  once  the  most  terrifying  and 
the  most  extraordinary  of  all  the  embellishments 
lavished  by  Lancelot  Braden  on  his  woods — there 
were  the  Tilting  Knights.  High  on  the  eastern 
slope,  in  a  sudden  crease  of  the  hill,  were  two 
colossal  mounted  figures  carved  in  stone  and  repre- 
senting knights  in  full  armor  riding  to  the  shock  of 
tournament .  Some  twenty  yards  apart ,  these  mon- 
ster imbecilities  hung  on  the  frozen  gallop  of  their 
steeds,  perpetually  plunging  at  each  other,  per- 
petually motionless,  while  nettles  grew  to  choke 
their  horses'  feet,  birds  defiled  their  visored  heads 
and  built  nests  in  the  crook  of  their  lance-arms, 


34  Privilege 

and  the  lush  vitality  of  the  indifferent  forest 
swelled  from  brown  to  green  and  shrank  to  brown 
again  leaving  them  gray  and  dead  and  fatuous. 
Frankly  we  were  frightened  of  the  Tilting  Knights, 
frightened  but  hypnotized.  One  winter  evening 
Harold  bet  me  his  stamp  collection  I  would  not 
go  and  tie  a  skipping  rope  round  the  leg  of  one  of 
the  horses,  as  proof  the  next  day  that  I  had  indeed 
braved  the  knights  in  the  dark.  I  wanted  that 
stamp  collection  frightfully  (there  were  several 
admirable  Liberians  with  beasts  and  fruit  on  them ; 
one  or  two  were  actually  triangular)  and  I  suborned 
Michael  to  come  secretly  with  me,  promising  him 
my  own  collection  of  birds'  eggs.  I  saw  myself 
devoting  my  life  to  philately,  becoming  the  world 
authority  on  Liberia;  what  did  I  want  with  birds' 
eggs  any  more?  We  crept  across  the  grass  and 
stood  for  a  moment  at  the  margin  of  the  black 
wood  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  friendly  lights  of 
home.  Then  we  started  to  stumble  upwards 
through  the  darkness.  I  can  still  smell  the  cold 
damp  of  the  dead  leaves  and  lichened  boughs;  I 
can  still  feel  the  squelch  of  the  wet  ground  as  we 
blundered  across  the  stretch  of  bog  near  the  great 
clump  of  rhododendrons.  At  last  we  reached  the 
little  ridge  that  cut  off  the  knights  from  Whern 


Whern  Abbey  35 

and  was  the  outer  bank  of  their  private  valley. 
The  starlight  filtered  through  the  sparser 
trees.  Vaguely  looming,  one  of  the  statues 
showed  the  menace  of  its  bulk.  At  that  moment 
I  distinctly  heard  a  crashing  in  the  undergrowth 
over  in  the  shadow  of  the  rising  hill  where  stood  the 
second  knight.  I  read  instantly  the  secret  of  the 
horrid  pair — after  dark  they  came  alive.  My 
nerves,  already  strung  up,  gave  way.  I  turned 
and  fled,  clumsily  dragging  my  bad  foot  down  the 
dark  hill,  over  the  wide  grass  and  safely  to  the 
stableyard.  Half  an  hour  later  I  met  Michael  in 
the  passage. 

"Funky  little  fool ! "  he  said  peevishly.  " If  you 
were  going  to  bunk  you  might  at  least  have  left 
the  rope  for  me  to  tie  on!" 


CHAPTER  III 

PORTMAN  SQUARE 


It  was  three  days  after  my  return  to  London 
that  I  ran  into  my  twin  cousins  near  Burlington 
House.  They  were  jolly  kids  with  nice  legs,  but 
their  parents  were  absurd. 

"Hullo!"  cried  Jane.  "Here's  Uncle  Dickie 
back!"  And  they  embraced  me  demonstratively. 
We  proceeded  along  Piccadihy  three  abreast,  Jane 
and  Vera  chattering  like  sparrows  while  I  basked 
in  the  quiet  contentment  of  their  youth  and 
merriment. 

"Scraps,"  I  said  solemnly,  "here  is  Stewart's. 
Slightly  to  your  left  and  down  the  hill  is  Rumpel- 
mayer's.     Which?" 

We  exchanged  family  news.  They  were  comi- 
cally serious  about  the  funeral. 

"Mother  is  taking  up  eurhythmies,"  said  Vera. 

"Your  mother  is  a  very  remarkable  woman,  my 

36 


Portman  Square  37 

dear  Vera,"  I  replied,  "but  I  wish  she  would  take 
up  things  that  conceal  her  figure.  Arctic  discov- 
ery, now,  or  developing  photographs — plenty  on 
and  a  poor  light.  But  there  you  are  .  .  . 
People  never  do.  Here  am  I,  for  instance,  a 
learned  bibliophile,  wasting  my  afternoon  on  two 
little  ..." 

"Try  'bits  of  fluff,'  uncle." 

I  looked  shocked. 

"Really,  Jane " 

"No,  uncle  dear,  only  pretence." 

"Vile  midgets,"  I  cried.  "Tell  me  about  your 
brother." 

"He  is  getting  up  a  quarterly  art  paper — with 
two  or  three  others.    They  think  you'll  subscribe." 

I  groaned. 

"Another  quarterly!  Called  'Watersheds,'  I 
suppose,  or  the  'Iguanodon.'  Subscribe!  That 
young  man  will  get  into  Monica's  clutches  if  he's 
not  careful." 

The  twins  clapped  their  hands  and  shouted: 
"He's  in  them  already,"  in  piercing  unison. 

"Perfidious  minuscula,"  I  said  severely,  "why 
have  you  hidden  this?  From  brother  to  sisters. 
The  tentacles  of  my  sister's  set  will  seize  your 
little  bodies  next  and  suck  your  warm  and  eager 


38  Privilege 

blood.  Jane  will  write  villanelles  about  ham  and 
Vera  will  lecture  on  Egyptian  tombs." 

The  twins  laughed  gleefully. 

"Old  croaker,  to  talk  like  that  of  your  sister." 

"You  are  too  young  to  know  that  Art  to-day  has 
lost  her  head.  Ays  est  celare  tar  tern,  as  the  scholars 
say.  I  am  old  and  gray  with  the  sins  of  others 
and  I  know.  Wherefore  I  forbid  you  to  turn 
your  minds  from  chocolates  and  lingerie  to  culture 
and  cubist  furniture.  You  wouldn't  like  to  be  cut 
out  of  my  will,  would  you?" 

The  foolish  darlings  looked  quite  sad,  as  though 
I  had  foretold  my  early  death.  Their  joyous 
freshness,  its  credulity  and  pertness,  filled  me  with 
a  ludicrous  protective  yearning.  I  seemed  to  see 
them  drawn  by  invisible  threads  towards  Monica's 
faked  but  lurid  blaze,  see  their  candor  melting  like 
candlewax,  their  heedless  ardor  becoming  merely 
one  more  tongue  of  painted  flame  in  that  furnace 
of  artifice  and  flippancy.  The  next  moment  I  was 
paying  the  bill  and  (by  request)  admiring  the 
twins'  new  shoes. 


After  a  solitary  dinner  at  the  club  I  went  round 
to  Portman  Square.     Michael  had  just  arrived 


Portman  Square  39 

from  Whern.  He  was  in  evening  clothes  and 
received  me  with  a  wave  of  the  hand.  I  watched 
him  striding  nervously  up  and  down  the  long 
drawing-room,  his  upright  slimness  darkening  one 
after  another  of  the  tall  mirrors  between  the 
windows. 

"Monica  here?"  I  asked  at  last. 

He  shook  his  head  and  stopped  at  the  far  end 
of  the  room  gazing  at  me  abstractedly,  his  thin 
lips  pursed.    Then  with  an  obvious  effort: 

' '  Dick, ' '  he  said,  ' '  there'll  be  trouble  at  Whern." 

I  raised  inquiring  brows.  Michael  went  on, 
speaking  rather  fast.  I  had  not  formerly  seen  him 
so  near  emotion. 

"He's  mad  and  obstinate!  I  tried  every  means 
— persuasion,  entreaties.  He'll  have  the  place  by 
the  ears.  Seemed  to  resent  my  interference.  Had 
the  insolence  to  try  the  elder  brother  touch  on  me — 
on  me\    Harold!    I  wish  the  devil " 

"You  were  it,  dear  Michael"  I  put  in.  "Well 
— it  might  have  been  better.  But  you  are  not. 
Nor  I,  thank  God.  But — if  I  may  suggest — it  was 
perhaps  hardly  tactful  to  lecture  Harold — er — so 
near  the  beginning  of  his  reign,  was  it?" 

Michael  sniffed. 

' '  Family  honor  is  not  a  matter  for  tact  or  com- 


4°  Privilege 

promise.     The  name  is  mine  as  much  as  his.     I 
will  not  have  it  lowered." 

"But  what's  happened ? "  I  asked.  ' ' What's  all 
the  fuss  about  ? " 

Thus  challenged,  Michael  was  unsatisfactory. 
Nothing  had  happened;  merely  the  tone  of  the 
thing  was  wrong;  the  servants  were  uneasy — or 
rather  some  of  them  were;  the  new  master  lounged 
in  bed  till  midday,  demanded  whiskies  at  one  a.m.  ; 
let  the  dogs  sprawl  on  the  chintzes  of  the  drawing- 
room;  drove  the  small  Renault  along  the  grass 
paths  of  the  rose  garden  to  see  if  she'd  take  the 
corners  cleanly.  Poor  Michael!  I  could  under- 
stand the  disgust  in  his  tidy  soul.  But  at  the  same 
time  I  sympathized  with  Harold's  resentment  at 
reproof ;  Michael  was  so  irritating  in  his  corrective 
mood. 

"  I  hope  you  are  over-pessimistic,"  I  said  at  last. 
"Things  will  settle  down.  They  must  be  different 
from  the  old  days  (good  luck  to  them  in  that)  and 
old  servants  are  easily  shocked.  I  shall  believe 
something  is  really  wrong  when  Studland  invades 
town  to  tell  us  so." 

Michael  turned  away  impatiently. 

"You  are  never  serious,"  he  said  shortly. 

At  that  moment  the  doorbell  pealed  noisily. 


Portman  Square  41 

From  below  on  the  steps  we  could  hear  laughter 
and  talking.    Michael  listened  a  moment. 

"Monica!"  he  said  angrily.  "With  the  usual 
crowd !  You  shall  have  the  privilege  of  welcoming 
them."    And  he  hurried  from  the  room. 

I  sat  and  listened  to  the  servant's  steps  along 
the  hall.  The  latch  clicked  and  the  babble  of 
voices  lost  its  muted  fringe  and  became,  in  the 
echoing  confinement  of  the  hall,  hard-edged  and 
strident.    I  heard  Monica  shout  to  the  man: 

"Anyone  in?" 

Then,  in  reply  to  inaudible  information: 

"Bring  something  to  drink  and  the  cigars  to 
the  drawing-room." 

I  made  no  move.  The  door  swung  open  and 
Monica  appeared,  followed  by  another  girl  and 
three  young  men.  She  wore  a  tight  dress  of  silver 
mail  that  flashed  and  wriggled  as  she  moved;  a 
black  turban  with  a  steel-blue  plume  half  covered 
her  red-gold  hair.  Her  companions  were  varied. 
The  girl  I  knew  to  be  Sally  Presteign,  a  sallow, 
secretive  creature  with  a  sudden,  hiccoughy  laugh 
that  startled  as  would  a  yodel  from  an  undertaker. 
Of  the  men,  two  were  in  evening  clothes  and  doubt- 
less in  the  daytime  wore  cloth-topped  boots  and 
braided    short    black   coats;    their    dress    waist- 


42  Privilege 

coats  were  gray  and  they  had  velvet  lapels  to 
their  dinner  jackets.  The  third  man  protruded  a 
swarthy  face  and  a  head  of  long  black  hair  from  a 
dark  blue  flannel  shirt ;  on  his  feet  were  sand-shoes. 

Monica  was  not  one  for  introductions. 

"You  might  have  the  manners  to  stand  up  when 
ladies  come  into  the  room,"  she  remarked. 

"I  might,"  I  agreed. 

"Take  pews,  you,"  she  told  her  friends.  "Where 
are  the  cigarettes?"  Finding  them  on  the  piano 
she  threw  the  box  to  Sally  Presteign.  It  knocked 
the  chair  arm  and  scattered  its  contents  on  the 
floor. 

"Damn,"  said  Monica.  "Leave  them" — as  the 
fattest  gray  waistcoat  creaked  towards  the  floor — 
"they'll  clear  them  up.    Dick — give  Sally  a  fag." 

I  obeyed,  skimming  my  case  along  the  carpet  to 
the  visitor's  none  too  dainty  feet. 

"Mr.  Moffat,"  went  on  Monica,  with  that  tight 
graciousness  she  always  used  when  speaking  to  her 
artistic  proteges,  "is  going  to  run  a  paper  for  me. 
We  want  fifty  pounds  from  you,  brother  Richard. 
And  another  from  Michael.    Where  is  he?" 

I  pointed  to  the  ceiling. 

"As  a  shareholder  I  should  like  details  of  this 
scheme.     What  kind  of  a  paper?    And  is  it  the 


Portman  Square  43 

same  as  Walter's?     Because,  if  so,  I've  already 
told  the  twins  I  shall  boycott  it  ruthlessly." 

"It's  my  show,  not  Walter's,"  replied  Monica, 
tartly,  "and  anyway  you  and  your  old  boycott 
.    .    .    !    As  for  details,  the  editor  will  supply." 

Moffat  blinked  at  me  behind  his  pince-nez  and 
began  in  a  voice  low  with  intensity : 

"Miss  Braden  feels  that  there  should  be  some 
platform  from  which  the — er — rebels  in  art  can 
state  their  case.  The  established  journals  are 
hidebound  with  academic  prejudice,  tied  hand  and 
foot  to  advertisers,  ignorant  of  the  new  in  litera- 
ture and  art,  dazzled  by  popular  success.  Miss 
Braden  most  generously  proposes  to  find  the  money 
for  a  quarterly  review  which  shall  provide  this 
needed  rostrum  and  wants  me  to — er — sort  of 
edit  it   ... " 

He  ended  tamely  and  cast  a  look  at  Monica  for 
encouragement.  But  she  only  lay  back  in  her 
chair,  with  half-shut  eyes  and  blew  smoke  rings 
at  the  ceiling.  I  felt  sorry  for  the  shaggy  man  and 
coughed  helpfully.  He  resumed,  less  intently  and 
more  nervously  than  before. 

"We  hope  before  very  long  to  pay  our  way  and — 
er — with  good  fortune  and  merit — even  to  make 
some  profit.     But  it  is  not  likely  that  there  will 


44  Privilege 

be  anything  in  the  nature  of  a — er — dividend — 
er — for  some  years.  We  are  anxious  to  avoid  the 
snare  of  advertisement  and  cadging.  We  wish  to 
keep  our  hands  free,  our  policy  unpledged.  We 
wish " 

Monica  interrupted  with  sudden  brutality. 

"Got  it  now,  Dick?  Send  me  a  check,  there's 
a  good  boy.  You  shall  have  a  copy  of  each  number 
for  nothing.  I'm  going  to  publish  all  my  poems 
and  Sally  has  written  a  looking-glass  version  of 
the  Roi  Pausole.    Damn  funny." 

Miss  Presteign  screeched  and  was  silent.  As 
she  never  moved,  one  had  the  impression  that  the 
noise  came  out  of  the  top  of  her  head  and  was 
released  by  sudden  pressure  of  her  tongue  on  a 
button  in  the  roof  of  her  mouth. 

"Are  there  to  be  any  contributors  besides  you 
and  Miss  Presteign?"  I  asked.  "There  must  be 
a  few  more  rebels  left." 

Monica  smiled  lazily.    Moffat  ventured: 

"I  thought,  Miss  Braden,  it  would  be  wise  to 
secure  some  permanent  contributors  and  I  have 
a  list " 

An  explosion  of  laughter  from  the  men  in  gray 
waistcoats,  who  had  been  whispering  together  for 
several  minutes,  brought  Moffat  up  in  midspeech. 


Portman  Square  45 

He  looked  ingratiatingly  towards  the  interruption, 
afraid  the  mockery  was  for  him. 

"What's  the  joke,  Waggles?"  asked  Monica. 

With  a  glance  at  me  the  man  addressed  (he  was 
the  more  repulsive  of  the  two,  lean,  with  a  dark, 
Jewish  face  shaved  blue  to  his  cheek  bones)  crossed 
the  room  and  whispered  in  my  sister's  ear.  The 
communication  was  clearly  entertaining,  for  Moni- 
ca's features  kindled  one  by  one  to  merriment. 
At  the  end  she  laughed  with  artificial  embarrass- 
ment and  waved  him  away. 

"Really,  Waggles.  You  are  the  limit.  Tell 
Sally.  But  I  think  it's  a  bit  steep  that  one,  don't 
you,  Fellowes?" 

The  fat  gray  waistcoat  heaved  with  sympathetic 
humor.  Rubbing  his  pale  thick  hands  down  his 
black  thick  thighs,  Fellowes  nodded  conspiratori- 
ally  and  observed  hoarsely : 

"He's  a  one  for  'em  is  Waggles." 

Moffat  was  forgotten.  He  sat  crouched  and 
deserted  in  his  chair,  a  forlorn  reminder  that  once 
long,  long  ago  the  ghost  of  an  idea  had  flitted 
across  this  bestial  scene.  The  sight  of  him  broke 
the  last  shell  of  my  aloofness.  I  got  up  and  limped 
towards  the  door. 

"Are  you  coming?"  I  said  as  I  passed. 


46  Privilege 

He  shuffled  eagerly  to  his  feet  and  ran  after  me 
from  the  room. 

A  short  way  down  the  street  he  turned  on  me 
suddenly. 

"Damn  you!"  he  said  with  a  hoarse  violence 
that  was  as  ludicrous  as  it  was  startling.  "Damn 
all  of  you — with  your  wealth  and  your  assurance 
and  your  cursed  levity!  You  dare  to  talk  of 
helping  art  and  artists,  when  you  want  only  an- 
other fillip  to  your  boredom.  Lecriers,  you  are, 
lechers  in  mind  and  body.    I  wish — I  wish " 

He  sputtered  into  silence.  I  glanced  at  his  work- 
ing face,  heard  his  stick  beating  a  ragged  tune  on 
the  pavement.  The  interval  of  quiet  seemed  in- 
terminable; then  gradually  the  noise  of  traffic 
crept  round  the  corner  of  consciousness  once  more ; 
a  hurrying  servant-girl  tapped  by  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street.  Once  more  I  looked  at  him. 
He  was  mumbling  inaudibly  and  staring  at  his 
ludicrous  shoes.  The  situation  was  embarrassing. 
I  wanted  to  hear  more  of  this  volcanic  under- 
Moffat  but  felt  myself  not  well  placed  for  saying  so. 
I  found  a  card  in  my  pocket. 

"That's  my  address,"  I  said.  "Come  and  see 
me  on  Wednesday  evening.  You're  right  in  one 
way  but  you're  wrong  in  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  others." 


Portman  Square  47 

And  I  left  him  screwing  his  features  with  short 
sight  and  puzzlement  over  the  visiting-card. 

A  short  detour  brought  me  round  again  to  Port- 
man  Square.  Before  going  to  my  rooms  I  felt  I 
must  have  this  out  with  Monica.  I  let  myself  in 
and  stood  in  the  hall  listening.  The  pile  of  coats, 
hats,  and  sticks  showed  the  visitors  had  not  de- 
parted. A  crash  of  glass  and  loud  laughter  from 
the  drawing-room  decided  me.  As  I  reached  the 
first-floor  landing,  I  saw  Michael  half-way  down 
the  next  flight  of  stairs.  He  beckoned  me  to 
him. 

"I'm  going  to  clear  the  lot  out,"  he  said.  "You 
must  support  me." 

I  nodded.  As  we  opened  the  drawing-room  door 
one  of  the  men  toppled  backwards  off  the  sofa 
and  a  spirt  of  liquid  patterned  the  gray  carpet. 
Shrill  applause  from  Monica  and  Miss  Presteign 
showed  that  the  catastrophe  was  someone's  vic- 
tory. I  gathered  from  the  foolish  position,  and 
still  more  foolish  expression  of  the  other  man,  that 
the  game  was  a  form  of  cock-fighting. 

Michael  watched  the  vanquished  rooster 
scramble  to  his  feet  and,  his  empty  glass  in  one 
hand,  adjust  his  crumpled  shirt-front  and  waist- 
coat.    He  giggled  as  he  took  in  the  newcomers. 


48  Privilege 

Michael  continued  to  watch  him  in  contemptuous 
silence.    Monica  shouted  for  a  fresh  contest. 

"Come  on!  Have  one  more.  You're  two  all 
now.    A  fiver  on  the  winner!" 

But  the  combatants  hung  back;  they  disliked 
Michael's  eye;  their  efforts  to  appear  at  ease  be- 
came more  and  more  infantile.  Realizing  the 
cause  of  their  hesitation  Monica  got  up  and 
lounged  to  the  mantelpiece. 

"What's  the  matter,  Michael?  Are  we  keeping 
you  awake?" 

He  took  no  notice  but,  by  continuing  his  arro- 
gant survey  of  first  one  and  then  the  other  stranger, 
intensified  their  discomfort.  Monica  knew  she 
was  beaten.  The  spirit  was  gone  from  her  con- 
federates; even  Miss  Presteign  showed  signs  of 
restiveness.  But  she  meant  to  carry  the  loss 
proudly.  As  though  Michael  and  I  were  not  in 
the  room,  she  joined  the  small  group  near  the 
sofa  end  and  stretched  her  gleaming  limbs. 

"I'm  sleepy,"  she  announced.  "Better  toddle 
off  now,  children.  See  you  to-morrow,  Sally? — 
Oh  yes,  lunch  at  Grimwoods;  I  remember." 

Glad  to  cover  their  retreat  with  her  nonchalance, 
the  visitors  left  the  room  and  were  on  the  landing 
before  they  remembered  there  should  be  a  servant 


Portman  Square  49 

to  show  them  out  and  some  mechanical  prepara- 
tion for  their  homeward  journey.  Monica  saw  she 
had  been  too  hasty  and  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room  to  ring  the  bell.  There  was  no  sign  of  em- 
barrassment in  her  walk  as  she  crossed  the  room 
to  do  so,  but  the  awkwardness  of  the  huddled 
visitors  on  the  landing  was  a  treat.  In  reply  to 
the  bell  the  man  came  upstairs,  with  discreet  sur- 
prise edged  his  way  round  the  obstructing  figures, 
and  stood  respectfully  at  the  door  awaiting  in- 
structions. Before  Monica  could  speak,  Michael 
cut  in: 

"Show  those  people  out,  Hughes." 

And,  as  the  man  disappeared,  he  closed  the  door. 

I  admired  Michael's  skill.  He  had  got  rid  of 
the  intruders  and  imprisoned  Monica  without 
addressing  a  word  to  any  one  of  them.  When 
the  front  door  had  thudded  the  finis  to  their 
visit,  he  turned  with  a  sneer  to  our  sister. 

"Very  pretty,  Monica.  Do  you  think  this  is  a 
night  club?  Be  kind  enough  in  future  to  enjoy 
your  scavengings  in  their  native  dustbins." 

Monica  was  almost  too  angry  to  speak. 

"I've  as  much  right — ,"  she  began. 

1 '  Your  rights  fatigue  me.  This  Is  Harold's  house 
and  not  yours  and  in  his  absence  I  give  orders. 

4 


50  Privilege 

Please  understand  once  for  all  that  I  will  not 
have  those  people  here,  nor  any  others  like 
them." 

She  lost  her  temper  and  stormed  at  him,  growing 
less  dignified  every  minute.  At  the  most  passion- 
ate moment  of  her  abuse  Michael  coolly  turned 
his  back  and  left  the  room.  She  stared  at  the 
closing  door  and  stammered  the  few  words  of  fury 
necessary  to  complete  the  rhythm  of  her  sentence. 
Then,  remembering  that  she  was  also  a  stylist  in 
manners,  she  throttled  down  her  bitterness.  I 
always  remember  the  mastery  of  that  instantane- 
ous transformation. 

"What  did  you  think  of  little  Moffat?"  she 
asked  amiably.  It  was  as  though  in  mid-thunder- 
storm, lightning  had  turned  to  flickering  sun- 
shine. It  was  not  in  my  heart  to  open  a  fresh 
dispute. 

"I  hope  to  see  more  of  him,"  I  replied.  "He 
seems  the  kind  of  person  who  might  prove  unex- 
pected. Have  you  seen  my  pipe  lying  about?  I 
think  I  must  have  left  it." 

We  searched  without  diligence — I  because  I 
knew  the  pipe  was  in  my  pocket,  Monica  because 
she  sought  merely  some  cover  for  the  completion 
of  her  self-control. 


Portman  Square  51 

I  yawned. 

"No  good,"  I  said.     "Must  have  left  it  some- 
where else.    Good-night." 

"Good-night,  Dick,"  she  answered  easily. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  BAD  NEW  TIMES 


In  those  days  I  spent  my  time  as  unofficial 
helper  in  the  department  of  Printed  Books  at  the 
Museum.  When  I  was  at  college  I  conceived  an 
enthusiasm  for  bibliography  and  was  able  in  the 
years  that  followed  my  going  down,  by  the  good 
fortune  of  my  circumstances,  to  give  that  enthusi- 
asm an  adequate  backing  of  knowledge.  Forrester 
found  me  useful  as  an  extra  hand  and  I  had  no 
taste  for  hectic  idleness.  Hence  my  establishment, 
a  year  before  my  father's  death,  in  two  rooms  in 
Fitzroy  Square,  great  soaring  rooms  with  windows 
like  poised  swans  and  delicate  moldings  in  plaster 
low  relief.  Michael  preferred  Portman  Square 
where  he  had  his  own  suite  and  could  study  the 
political  chessboard  in  dignified  seclusion,  but  the 
blend  of  ceremony  and  disorder  which  pervaded 
the  family  house  bothered  me  and  I  made  proxim- 

52 


The  Bad  New  Times  53 

ity  to  the  Museum  an  excuse  for  clinging  to  my 
separate  home. 

I  was  wearily  staring  at  the  fire  one  evening 
shortly  before  Christmas  and  wondering  whether 
there  was  to  be  a  family  gathering  at  Whern  and, 
if  not,  to  whom  I  should  propose  myself  as  guest, 
when  the  telephone  shrilled  an  unexpected  promise 
of  solution.  Michael,  at  the  other  end  of  the  line, 
sounded  tense  and  irritated ;  his  voice  snapped,  as 
though  one  after  another  the  strings  of  his  self- 
control  were  breaking.  He  was  coming  round  at 
once,  now  that  he  knew  I  was  at  home.  As  I 
waited  I  felt  the  soothing  magic  of  the  room  begin 
to  work.  It  always  seemed  to  come  to  my  help 
at  moments  of  anxiety.  Five  minutes  before  I  had 
been  tired  and  restless  for  no  reason;  now  some- 
thing had  happened  and  I  felt  cool  and  level- 
minded.  Above  the  warm  mosaic  of  my  books 
the  dull  gold  walls  rose  into  shadow;  the  firelight 
leapt  from  point  to  point,  kindling  to  intricate 
life  or  transforming  into  a  winking  series  of  ghost- 
gray  gleams  my  carved  and  polished  or  austere 
and  bleached  oak  furniture.  Outside,  the  square 
lay  dead  under  a  black  frost.  There  was  no 
traffic  and  only  an  occasional  pedestrian,  but  I 
could  hear,  fluttering  about  the  darkness,  the  un- 


54  Privilege 

easy  whisperings  of  winter-London,  a  barely  audi- 
ble rustle  of  brittle  fragments  of  sound  as  would 
be  made  by  innumerable  tiny  splinters  of  glass 
swirled  to  and  fro  in  the  grip  of  a  noiseless  wind. 
Listening  to  the  breath  of  London  had  been,  ever 
since  I  settled  there,  a  fondness  of  mine  and  I 
was  by  now  able  to  distinguish  faint  differences 
between  the  air-voices  of  summer  and  winter,  of 
damp  and  drought,  of  clear  and  foggy  nights.  On 
this  particular  evening  I  gave  special  attention  to 
the  city's  breathing,  because  this  blight  of  frost 
was  still  somewhat  unfamiliar  to  me  and  I  felt 
all  the  eagerness  of  the  student  discovering  a  new 
field  for  investigation.  So  engrossed  was  I  that 
it  annoyed  me  to  hear  a  car  purr  round  the  corner 
and  stop  below  my  windows.  Quick  steps  crossed 
the  pavement  and  the  bell  rang  sharply.  Groping 
my  way  downwards  to  the  door  I  wondered  why 
Michael  was  not  alone.  On  the  doorstep  I  recog- 
nized Studland,  a  little  behind  my  brother,  bowed 
and  shivering;  but  even  in  these  unusual  circum- 
stances vaguely  a  gecture  of  dignified  respect.  We 
went  upstairs  in  silence.  Studland  awaited  per- 
mission to  remove  his  coat  and  seat  himself.  I 
got  my  visitors  drinks  and  tobacco.  Michael  took 
up  his  favorite  position  on  the  hearthrug,  hands  in 


The  Bad  New  Times  55 

pockets,  a  smoking-coat  buttoned  tightly  over  his 
evening  shirt.  He  was  excited  and  spoke  with 
sneering  abruptness. 

"You  may  remember,  Dick,  saying  that  you 
would  believe  things  were  wrong  at  Whern  when 
Studland  came  to  town  to  tell  us  so.  Here  he  is. 
He's  been  sacked." 

I  turned  an  inquiring  eye  on  the  butler,  who 
rubbed  one  hand  along  his  thigh  in  an  embarrassed 
way,  while  with  the  other  he  played  with  his 
traditional  cravat. 

"What  have  you  been  up  to,  Studland?" 

Michael  shook  himself  impatiently. 

"Don't  be  funny,  Dick.  It's  serious.  Harold 
has  sacked  three  quarters  of  the  staff — wages  in 
lieu  of  notice — and  is  taking  on  a  new  lot.  Stud- 
land came  straight  to  Portman  Square  to  see  me. 
I  have  brought  him  here  so  that  you  will  believe 
he  has  really  come.  I  shall  go  to  Whern  next 
Monday  and  you  will  come  too.  It  is  impossible 
for  me  to  get  away  before." 

I  was  too  accustomed  to  Michael's  methods  to 
resent  this  autocratic  phrasing,  but  I  felt  uncertain 
of  the  object  of  the  proposed  visit  and  of  our 
status  in  the  matter. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do,  Michael?" 


56  Privilege 

' '  Do !   Why  find  out  what  the  reason  for  this  is." 
"I  don't  quite  see  where  I  come  in?" 
Michael  replied  by  bidding  Studland  repeat  his 
narrative  of  events  at  Whern. 

"Well,  sir,  it  was  a  fortnight  ago  that  the  house- 
keeper told  me  something  was  afoot.  One  of  the 
girls  gave  her  sauce  and,  in  reply  to  reprimand, 
hinted  that  Mrs.  Summers  would  not  for  long  be 
in  a  position  to  find  fault.  Then  a  day  or  two  later 
I  had  trouble  of  the  kind  with   Dale.     Then, 


again 

The  recital  continued  and  reached  its  climax 
with  the  sudden  dismissal  of  Studland,  Mrs. 
Summers,  and  those  of  the  house,  stable,  and  gar- 
den staff  who  had  been  longest  at  Whern.  When 
he  finished  the  old  man  dropped  his  head  on  his 
hands  and  sat  motionless.  His  world  had  turned 
upside  down.  Forty  of  his  sixty  years  of  life  had 
been  spent  at  Whern.  He  did  not  understand, 
and  had  come  to  London  to  see  Michael  as  a 
child  will  come  to  someone  it  knows  and  trusts  for 
explanation  of  the  strange  customs  of  an  alien 
household. 

Michael  respected  the  poor  man's  bewilderment 
for  a  few  moments.    Then  he  said,  gently  enough : 

' ' Thank  you,  Studland.   That  will  do  at  present. 


The  Bad  New  Times  57 

Go  back  in  the  car.  I  will  walk.  They  will  have 
a  room  ready  for  you  at  Portman  Square." 

I  was  solemn  enough  now,  but  felt  no  easier  as 
to  our  descent  on  Whern.  When  the  butler  had 
gone: 

"It's  astounding,"  I  said.  "Studland!  To  be 
given  the  boot  like  that !  What  the  hell  is  Harold 
after?  But,  Michael,  it's  damned  awkward  to 
interfere.     He's  master." 

Michael  tossed  his  head. 

"If  you  funk  it,  you  needn't  come.  But  I'm 
going.  Awkward  or  not,  it's  got  to  be  done.  If 
he  imagines  he  can  play  old  Harry  with  Whern 
just  because  he's  the  eldest  ..." 

I  had  an  idea. 

"Don't  you  think  it  might  be  wise  to  go  down 
as  though  in  the  ordinary  course?  Why  not  for 
Christmas  ?  Then  we  could  look  round  and  gauge 
the  situation.  I  must  confess  that  to  dash  down 
with  a  'What's  all  this?'  manner  strikes  me  as 
devilish  risky.  It  might  put  Harold's  back  up  and 
lead  to  a  thumping  big  row,  whereas  a  little  di- 
plomacy, now,  and  ...  At  least  we  shall  be 
no  differently  placed  for  a  row  if  one  is  necessary." 

Michael  was  always  fair-minded  and  he  listened 
attentively.     His  sense  of  injury  was  bitter  and 


58  Privilege 

urged  immediate  action,  but  after  a  little  argument 
he  admitted  that  my  plan  was  reasonable.  We 
concocted  a  telegram  announcing  ourselves  for  the 
following  Monday  and  to  stop  over  the  New  Year. 
We  agreed  that  it  was  fortunate  that  Monica  and 
Anthony  were  otherwise  engaged. 


II 


Snow  fell  on  the  Sunday  and  it  was  to  a  white 
Wiltshire  that  we  traveled  through  the  leaden 
light  of  Monday  afternoon.  I  half  wondered  if  we 
should  be  met  and  found  myself  for  the  first  time 
looking  anxiously  for  the  car  as  the  train  jolted 
into  Laylham.  It  was  almost  a  relief  to  see  one 
waiting  in  the  road.  I  recognized  the  man  who 
took  our  bags  and  although  the  chauffeur  was 
strange  he  seemed  an  ordinary-looking  fellow 
enough.  The  station-master  greeted  us  effusively 
and  I  thought  the  salutations  of  the  two  or  three 
country  people  who  got  out  of  the  local  train  a 
shade  more  emphatic  than  I  had  remembered  to 
be  usual.  Michael  made  no  sign  and  I  decided  I 
was  imagining  differences  where  none  existed. 

We  were  cold  and  sat  in  silence  during  the  three- 
mile  drive.   The  fields  and  hedges  were  white,  and 


The  Bad  New  Times  •  59 

in  the  falling  dusk  it  was  impossible  to  take  in 
any  details  of  the  woods  or  park,  as  we  passed 
through  towards  the  house.  The  first  serious  re- 
minder of  the  changed  order  was  the  appearance 
of  the  new  butler,  a  rosy-faced,  shifty-looking 
person  with  a  fat,  servile  voice. 

"His  lordship  is  in  the  smoking-room.  I  was  to 
inform  you  gentlemen  that  tea  is  awaiting  you." 

Harold  greeted  us  with  cordiality,  drawing  us 
to  the  fire,  rattling  the  keys  and  money  in  his 
pockets,  beaming  geniality. 

"Good  of  you  fellows  to  come  down.  Keep  up 
old  customs,  eh  ?  If  only  this  damned  snow  would 
go,  we  might  get  some  decent  shootin'.  Huntin's 
been  impossible  for  a  fortnight .    Ground  like  iron . ' ' 

He  rattled  on,  while  we  had  our  tea  and  stretched 
cold  limbs  to  the  roaring  fire.  Was  it  a  mare's 
nest  we  had  come  out  to  find  ? 

"Where's  Mary?" 

"She'll  be  down  to  dinner.  Bit  tired,  I  think. 
We  have  a  few  folks  here  and  it  makes  late  hours." 

"Who  are  the  guests?"  asked  Michael  omi- 
nously. 

Harold  paused  a  moment. 
'Don't  know  if  you  know  'em,"  he  said.    "Oh, 
yes — you  know  Petersham  and  Molly  Harter  and 


60  Privilege 

Chris  Speelman.  They're  here — and  one  or  two 
others." 

Michael  did  not  reply  and  I  felt  things  were 
veering  round  once  more  to  the  significant. 

The  next  incident  strengthened  this  feeling. 
On  my  way  to  my  room,  I  passed  a  housemaid 
who,  instead  of  becoming  merely  part  of  the  land- 
ing wall  and  fading  impersonally  away,  gave  me 
a  distinct  and  provocative  glance  of  a  kind  with 
which  I  have  definite  associations. 

Finally — and  I  felt  it  almost  a  confirmation  of 
my  forebodings — came  the  following  occurrence: 
My  bedroom  was  unsatisfactory.  There  was  a 
cigarette  end  on  the  window  sill,  no  hot  water,  a 
black  smoky  fire,  and  a  small  tray  with  a  used 
glass  on  it  pushed  into  the  corner  behind  the 
hanging  cupboard.  I  rang  the  bell.  It  was  an- 
swered by  a  maid  in  regulation  cap  and  apron.  She 
looked  at  me  with  a  faint  challenge  in  her  eyes. 

"Where  is  the  valet?" 

"Me,  sir,"  she  answered  pertly. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Where  is  the  man  who 
is  to  look  after  my  things?" 

"I  am  to  look  after  you,  sir,"  she  said,  and  her 
tone  gave  a  new  significance  to  the  commonplace 
phrase. 


The  Bad  New  Times  61 

"In  that  case,"  I  said  coldly,  "would  you  be 
good  enough  to  make  this  room  decently  tidy,  to 
remove  that  tray,  to  bring  me  hot  water,  and  to 
unpack  those  bags.    I  gave  the  keys  to  the  butler. " 

The  girl's  manner  lost  its  subtle  familiarity  and 
became  sulky.  She  picked  up  the  tray  and  dis- 
appeared. I  wondered  whether  Michael  was  hav- 
ing a  similar  experience. 

To  give  the  girl  time  to  finish  her  duty,  I  decided 
to  look  up  my  sister  and  to  sound  her  for  fresh 
evidence  of  what  was  afoot.  Mary  was  in  her 
sitting-room,  an  exasperating  place  tucked  under 
the  battlements  of  the  central  tower,  with  small 
traceried  windows  and  an  attic  ceiling.  But  I 
had  not  been  with  her  for  five  minutes  before  I 
was  once  more  blaming  myself  for  exaggerated 
fears.  She  talked  quietly  and  cheerfully  of  normal 
things  and  seemed  not  the  least  surprised  that 
Michael  and  I  had  come  to  Whern.  In  a  way  it 
was  mortifying.  The  dramatic  planning  of  our 
journey,  the  rosy  scoundrel  of  a  butler,  the  incident 
of  the  housemaids,  had  encouraged  me  to  think 
our  appearance  opportune.  I  was  even  prepared 
to  be  greeted,  if  not  as  a  deliverer,  at  least  as  a 
welcome  reenforcement  to  the  angels.  Instead  I 
was  taken  for  granted  and  Mary  was  talking  about 


62  Privilege 

dogs  and  tapestry  and  the  need  for  varnishing 
two  of  the  portraits  in  the  great  hall,  as  though 
the  occasion  were  actually  only  one  of  a  series  of 
ordinary  Christmas  gatherings.  I  tried  to  draw 
her  about  Studland. 

"He  was  getting  old  and  ill,"  she  said,  "and 
Harold  decided  to  pension  him  off.  Summers 
went  in  a  huff  over  some  silly  point  of  status. 
I  still  have  Grantham  and  you  will  find  lots  you 
know  as  you  go  round  to-morrow." 

My  exultation  drooped  and  drooped.  I  felt 
angry  with  Michael  for  the  mountain  he  had  con- 
jured from  the  veriest  molehill.  Then  I  congratu- 
lated myself  that  the  "diplomatic"  method  had 
at  least  saved  us  from  open  blundering,  Mary 
talked  on.  She  was  coming  to  town  about  the 
middle  of  January;  Alice  Snaith  was  engaged  to 
young  Clifford ;  could  Michael  persuade  Harold  to 
make  overtures  to  that  odd  creature,  Shrivenham? 
Mary  was  dying  to  see  Dauntney.  .  .  .  "We 
meet  none  of  the  real  neighbors,"  she  complained. 
"All  Harold's  friends  are  people  from  town." 

"Time  to  dress,"  she  said  at  last,  and  I  went 
downstairs  to  find  my  room. 

Everything  was  in  order.  My  evening  clothes 
were  lying  out ;  the  fire  glowed  generously.    I  was 


The  Bad  New  Times  63 

half  dressed  when  a  knock  on  the  door  announced 
a  man  servant. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  I  could  find  no  dress  ties 
among  your  things.  In  case  you  had  forgotten 
them,  I  asked  hi's  lordship's  permission  to  bring 
these  few  for  your  use." 

I  thanked  him  and  he  withdrew.  Had  I  dreamed 
the  encounter  with  the  girl  ?  From  feeling  ashamed 
of  my  suspicions,  I  became  uneasy  as  to  my  men- 
tal-balance. Certainly  the  fellow  was  strange  to 
me,  but  as  certainly  he  had  unpacked  my  bags  and 
was  now  in  attendance  on  my  wants.  I  slipped 
along  to  Michael's  old  room  and  found  him  nearly 
dressed  and  humming  one  of  those  tight,  well- 
corseted  ditties  of  which  he  alone  seemed  to  have 
the  secret.  He  answered  my  leading  questions 
with  humorous  astonishment.  What  did  I  mean 
by  "noticed  anything"  ?  Of  course  his  things  had 
been  unpacked.  By  a  valet,  he  supposed.  No, 
he  had  not  noticed  the  butler's  face  particularly. 
Why  should  he?  It  appeared  that  even  Michael 
was  conspiring  to  make  me  seem  a  fool.  Subtly 
he  was  now  on  the  side  of  Whern  and  meeting 
with  bland  condescension  the  impertinent  queries 
of  an  outsider.  Much  rufned,  I  went  down  to 
dinner. 


64  Privilege 

The  guests  were  not  my  sort,  but  they  behaved 
with  perfect  suitability.  Harold's  boisterousness 
and  lounging  manner  were  in  no  way  more  exag- 
gerated than  usual.  The  evening  passed  in  bridge 
and  billiards,  while  two  or  three  practised  songs 
for  theatricals  due  for  Christmas  Eve.  When  I 
awoke  next  morning  I  was  fiercely  determined  that 
all  was  well  at  Whern,  that  Michael  had  let  me 
down,  and  that  in  future  I  was  impervious  to 
alarms. 

in 

This  deliberate  obtuseness  lasted  a  week.  The 
weather  remained  snowy  and  cold.  I  saw  little 
of  the  rest  of  the  party,  as  I  spent  my  time  mainly 
in  the  long  library  examining  a  set  of  locked 
shelves  in  the  gallery  never  accessible  in  my 
father's  day  and  now  yielding  to  my  eager  eyes 
contents  of  considerable  interest. 

Then  came  New  Year's  Eve.  It  had  snowed 
hard  all  day  and  Harold,  when  he  came  down  to 
dinner,  was  clearly  far  gone  in  whisky.  At  dinner 
Petersham  swayed  about  in  his  seat  and  spilt 
claret  on  the  table-cloth.  During  the  savoury  he 
challenged  his  neighbor  to  a  balancing  match  on 
the  back  legs  of  their  chairs.     Inevitably  both 


The  Bad  New  Times  65 

tipped  over  and  the  company  applauded  the  swirl 
of  underclothes  and  the  long  silk  leg  that,  in  the 
lady's  fall,  traced  an  admirable  curve  backwards 
from  the  table  edge.  One  of  the  guests  boasted 
he  could  drop  tumblers  from  a  great  height  without 
breaking  them.  Harold  suggested  betting  and 
heavy  stakes  were  made.  The  party  adjourned  to 
the  clerestory  of  the  octagon  hall  and  footmen 
carried  upstairs  dozens  of  tumblers.  There  fol- 
lowed an  hour  of  uproar,  shrieks  of  excitement, 
crashes  of  splintered  glass,  oaths,  and  shouts  of 
encouragement.  Michael  went  up  to  Harold  and 
said  something  in  an  undertone.  There  was  an 
insolent  reply,  and,  tightening  his  lips,  the  younger 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  to  his  room. 
Mary  had  long  ago  disappeared.  I  sat  on  the 
settle  by  the  drawing-room  door  and  watched. 
When  the  game  of  tumblers  palled  there  was  an 
interval  for  drinks. 

"A  pyjama  dance,"  suggested  someone,  and  the 
revelers  fled  to  their  bedrooms  to  undress. 

From  my  own  room  I  heard  the  music  and 
laughter  till  nearly  one  o'clock.  Then  silence 
sagged  down  on  Whern  and  once  more  the  soft 
mutter  of  the  snowy  wind  crept  about  the  mold- 
ings of  the  great  facade.     I  could  not  sleep.     This 


66  Privilege 

wasteful  rowdiness  made  me  nervous  and  miser- 
able. I  had  left  my  tobacco  in  the  smoking-room 
and  went  to  fetch  it.  From  the  last  stair  I  flashed 
my  torch  along  the  marble  hall.  It  was  frosted 
and  glittering  with  broken  glass;  most  unsuitable 
walking  for  bedroom  slippers.  Mounting  to  the 
first  floor  I  went  towards  the  servants'  quarters, 
meaning  to  take  the  service  staircase  and  so  ap- 
proach the  library  from  the  other  side.  Suddenly 
a  door  opened  ahead  of  me  and  a  beam  of  light 
shot  across  the  corridor.  I  shrank  into  a  recess. 
A  woman  in  a  heavy  cloak  hurried  out  and  the 
door  closed  behind  her.  But  not  before  I  had  seen, 
stretched  indolently  across  the  bed,  Harold,  red- 
faced  and  seemingly  sunk  in  sleep. 

The  next  morning  I  told  Michael  that  I  was 
going  back  to  town  and  that  Mary  was  coming 
with  me.  Monica  had  gone  abroad  directly  after 
Christmas;  Anthony  was  in  Leicestershire  with 
friends.     Michael  asked  no  questions. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  follow  in  a  day  or  two. 
I  want  to  have  a  look  at  the  property  beyond 
Nicholas." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  FAMILY  AT  WAR 


In  the  train  I  prepared  to  evade  questions, 
Mary  had  come  away  meekly  enough,  but  I  an- 
ticipated some  demand  for  explanation.  None 
came,  and  I  began  to  feel  neglected.  The  man  of 
action  should  be  saluted;  the  god,  after  he  had 
alighted  from  his  car,  should  receive  some  word  of 
homage.  My  arrival  at  Whern  had  fallen  flat, 
but  I  had  mastered  the  event  with  energy  and 
speed  and  now  deserved  from  the  rescued  one,  if 
not  respect,  at  least  complaint. 

"Sorry  to  rush  you  off,  Polly,"  I  began  in- 
geniously. 

Mary  smiled  at  me  pleasantly.  It  seemed  my 
precipitance  was  forgiven.  Her  lack  of  perception 
was  irritating.  She  must  be  made  to  realize 
why  Whern  was  at  present  no  place  for  her.  I 
coughed. 

67 


68  Privilege 

"You  see — things  were  going  on.  .  .  .  I 
didn't  like  to  feel  you  were  alone.   ..." 

"My  good  Dick,  I  know  all  about  it.  You  talk 
as  if  you'd  discovered  something!" 

I  stared  at  her. 

"You  knew!  Then  why  to  goodness  didn't  you 
let  me  and  Michael  know?" 

She  tossed  her  head. 

"And  despise  myself  and  be  despised  by  both 
of  you  for  doing  it,  I  suppose?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said.    "Apologies." 

We  sat  in  silence  and  the  train  swayed  towards 
Paddington.  I  was  ashamed  of  my  lapse.  Not  so 
much  did  I  regret  the  imputation  on  Mary  of  tale- 
bearing, but  it  worried  me  that  I  had  not  instinct- 
ively assumed  the  code  of  caste  and  that  it  had 
been  possible  for  me  to  imagine  a  sister  of  ours, 
from  fear  or  unhappiness,  betraying  the  wrong- 
doing of  one  brother  to  another.  Nevertheless  I 
was  unconvinced  by  this  projection  of  schoolboy 
honor  into  life,  by  the  persistence — against  com- 
mon sense — of  this  conventional,  stilted  courage. 
No  doubt  the  fault  was  mine — indicated  some 
strain  of  commonness  in  me  that  preferred  prac- 
tical good  sense  to  traditions  of  quality.  But  that 
begged  the  question,  because  tradition  was  good 


The  Family  at  War  69 

sense  and  admitted  no  exceptions.  Evidently  I 
was  tinged  with  a  baser  morality  than  that  of  my 
ancestors  or  of  my  contemporaries.  The  thought 
was  mortifying,  but  at  the  same  time  mildly  flatter- 
ing. I  daresay  the  Ugly  Duckling  secretly  thought 
himself  rather  a  fellow. 

As  the  journey  proceeded  I  reviewed  with  in- 
terest the  varying  circles  to  which  my  brothers 
and  Monica  belonged.  I  suppose  I  was  in  those 
days  what  they  call  a  "superior"  young  man, 
because  I  habitually  found  amusement  and  in- 
struction in  analysis  of  the  different  categories  of 
that  minority  of  aristocrats — relatively  so  few  in 
number  but  so  great  in  influence — that  was  our 
world.  But  my  recent  excursion  into  caste-honor 
had  extra-sharpened  my  critical  wits. 

Harold's  taste  was — not  surprisingly  and  maybe 
by  compulsion — tending  to  the  flash  metropolitan. 
The  local  landowners  fought  shy  of  him,  and  he 
was  driven  to  look  for  company  among  the  mem- 
bers of  that  student  plutocracy  that,  at  certain 
seasons,  descends  riotously  from  London  to  splash 
blatancies  about  the  resentful  but  helpless  shires. 
From  these  invaders  the  real  residents,  whose  occu- 
pations were  horse  and  dog  breeding  and  a  little 
farming,  shrank  in  distaste  and  fear.     The  loose 


70  Privilege 

complacency  of  Mrs.  Harter  and  her  friends  they 
might  in  some  moods  have  enjoyed  for  its  physical 
abandon.  But  its  perverted  mentality  jarred  their 
vague  instincts  of  propriety.  A  few  were  sots  and 
a  few  mere  brutes,  but  in  the  main  they  were  or- 
dinary, healthy  animals  who  kept  for  London  the 
indulgences  of  which  they  were  at  heart  ashamed. 

Very  different  were  Michael's  friends,  both  from 
the  people  Harold  knew  and  from  those  he  might 
have  known.  They  included  at  once  the  cream 
and  the  intelligence  of  the  aristocracy.  By  the 
"best  families"  (and  in  Michael's  parlance  that 
meant  literally  five  or  six,  and  not  the  ten  thousand 
of  press  chatter)  my  brother  was  regarded  as  one 
of  the  few  hopes  for  the  future,  for  he  loved  politics 
and  understood  them,  but  he  loved  breeding  more. 
It  was  rare  to  find  a  young  man  of  ancient  English 
lineage  who  was  neither  dissolute  nor  touched  with 
democracy.  Michael  was  rigid  for  privilege,  but 
he  was  ready  to  do  his  part  honorably  and  with 
industry.  One  might  say  that  he  believed  at  once 
in  the  divine  right  and  the  earthly  duties  of  the 
aristocrat. 

While  the  former  of  these  two  beliefs  earned  him 
the  affection  of  the  most  exclusive,  the  latter,  to 
which  was  allied  efficiency  and  zeal,  won  him  the 


The  Family  at  War  71 

respect  and  interest  of  the  political  intelligentsia 
of  conservatism.  He  had  been  on  the  verge  of 
Parliament  for  a  year  before  my  father  died,  and 
only  the  mass  of  his  outside  political  engagements 
had  held  him  back.  He  was  not  an  intoxicating 
speaker,  but  his  manner  was  clear  and  forceful 
and  his  sincerity  obvious.  It  is  easy  to  understand 
that  such  talents  were  in  great  demand  among  a 
kindly  and  bewildered  class  of  titled  landowners, 
who  resented  and  feared  the  attacks  ever  more 
fiercely  made  upon  them,  but  had  neither  capacity 
nor  knowledge  to  defend  themselves. 

In  Monica's  circle  were  to  be  found  at  once  the 
prodigals  of  the  great  houses,  the  cleverest  of  the 
younger  members  of  the  new  aristocracy,  and  the 
dabblers  in  art  of  the  upper  middle  class.  The 
intermixture  of  charlatan  was  frequent;  Jews 
abounded.  But  then  you  cannot  play  Maecenas 
at  eight  and  twenty  without  cherishing  a  few 
charlatans,  nor  at  any  age  without  encountering 
innumerable  Jews.  I  disliked  Monica's  friends 
however  exquisite  their  taste,  for  the  sound  of 
their  voices  and  the  smell  of  their  pomade.  Never- 
theless they  were  all  good  company,  and,  whatever 
their  motives,  helped  new  ideas  to  spread,  because 
they  had  money  to  buy  pictures  and  books,  time 


72  Privilege 

to  spend  at  concerts  and  private  theatrical  pro- 
ductions, and  superlatives  to  squander  on  any 
artistic  freak. 

My  own  friends  were  few  then  as  they  are  now, 
because  I  have  always  preferred  animals  to  human 
beings.  Besides  I  was  family  peacemaker,  con- 
tinually on  the  fringe  of  quarrels,  continually  a 
confidant  from  one  side  or  another.  The  position 
was  no  sinecure,  but  it  allowed  me  to  gauge  my 
relations  to  my  brothers  and  sisters.  Harold  de- 
spised me  for  a  weakling,  but  he  feared  my  tongue. 
Michael  was  gently  scornful  of  my  taste  for  com- 
promise, my  very  half-hearted  socialism,  but  he 
knew  me  for  an  ally  of  order  and  decency  and 
recognized  my  value  as  a  go-between.  Monica 
liked  me  because  she  knew  that  I  liked  her  and 
because  I  laughed  at  her  jokes.  We  both  had  a 
real  love  for  beauty  and,  I  think,  throve  on  mutual 
criticism.  But  there  were  times  when  I  hated  her 
for  vulgar  cruelty  and  she  me  for  officious  acidity. 
Anthony  had  not  at  this  period  won  access  to  the 
family  lists;  he  was  treated  as  a  junior  and  it  was 
something  of  a  chance  that  such  mistaken  treat- 
ment did  not  lead  to  actual  disaster.  As  for  Mary, 
she  and  I  were  fast  friends,  for  all  that  she  would 
scold  me  sometimes  as  supercilious  and  reaction- 


The  Family  at  War  73 

ary,  while  I,  amusedly  mindful  that  I  was  myself 
regarded  by  Michael  as  playing  with  anarchy, 
would  lecture  her  severely  on  the  dangerous  trend 
of  her  extremism.  Later  we  drifted  apart;  the 
reader  shall  judge  whose  was  the  fault. 

At  this  point  I  recalled  with  a  start  how  oddly 
positions  had  been  reversed  in  our  conversation 
of  a  little  while  ago.  Then  it  was  she  who  had 
flown  the  colors  of  the  old  regime.  I  looked  at  her 
sitting  opposite.  As  she  read,  she  pursed  her  fine, 
thin  lips  something  as  Michael  did,  the  lower  lip 
drawn  inwards  against  the  teeth.  Her  face  was 
small,  with  straight,  fair  eyebrows  and  a  creamy 
skin.  She  had  none  of  Monica's  vivid  coloring 
and  her  normal  manner  was  diffident  and  shy. 
But  there  was  temper  in  her  rather  long,  sharp 
nose  and  in  the  tense  quietness  of  her  attitude. 
She  was  featured  like  Michael  and  Anthony — 
finely,  too  finely.  Harold  was  heavy-faced  and 
would  be  an  unpleasant  dotard.  Monica  and  I 
had  open  foreheads  and  wide,  easy  eyes,  but  the 
treacherous  sensuality  of  the  Bradens  was  stamped 
on  our  lips.  She  had  the  luck  of  recklessness  and 
I  was  a  cripple,  so  we  might  have  survived  our 
heritage,  the  one  flinging  over  the  chasm,  the 
other  limping  sardonically  to  its  brim.    But  there 


74  Privilege 

were   other  pitfalls,   pitfalls  we  could  not  have 
foreseen. 

II 

It  was  not  that  I  had  regarded  Harold  as  a 
thing  of  no  will  or  that  I  had  consciously  taken  his 
blustering  habit  for  an  impatient  cloak  for  indo- 
lence, but  I  was  frankly  surprised  at  his  written 
demand  that  Mary  should  return  home.  It  came 
three  weeks  after  her  sudden  flight  to  town  and 
was  all  the  more  unexpected  in  that  Michael,  who 
left  Whern  some  days  later  than  we  did,  described 
Harold  as  unmoved  by  the  sudden  departure  of 
his  sister. 

"She  is  wanted  here,"  he  wrote,  "and  I  shall 
appreciate  your  seeing  that  she  leaves  London  on 
Friday  morning.  The  car  will  meet  her  at  Layl- 
ham." 

Michael,  with  that  infuriating  obtuseness  that 
so  often  characterized  his  handling  of  other  folks' 
affairs,  read  this  aloud  at  breakfast  at  Portman 
Square.  Mary  told  me  afterwards  she  nearly 
shook  him  for  the  owlish  interrogation  of  his 
glance  across  the  litter  of  toast  and  fruit  and 
opened  envelopes.  There  was  a  servant  in  the 
room  at  the  moment  and,  when  he  had  disappeared, 


The  Family  at  War  75 

Mary  asked  angrily  why  Michael  must  read  per- 
sonal letters  aloud  for  anyone  to  hear.  Then  she 
snatched  Harold's  note  and  brought  it  round  to 
the  Museum  for  me  to  see.    I  rang  Michael  up. 

"This  letter  of  Harold's,"  I  said.  "What  are 
you  going  to  do?" 

"Do?    Nothing.     What's  the  excitement?" 

"She  can't  go  back  there." 

"Why  not?" 

"Good  God,  Michael,  you  don't  suggest,  after 
going  off  like  that " 

"Like  what?" 

I  began  to  realize  he  knew  nothing  of  the  reason 
for  Mary's  departure,  that  he  had  noticed  nothing 
at  Whern  but  a  tendency  to  rowdiness  and  de- 
struction of  property,  that  he  might  regard  Mary's 
return  as  some  small  security  for  better  behavior 
and  therefore  desirable.  I  had  not  discussed  the 
matter  with  him  because  we  had  hardly  met. 
What  a  damned,  high-thinking,  simple-minded 
dunderhead ! 

"Are  you  in  to  lunch?"  I  asked. 

"lam." 

"All  right.    I'll  come  home."    And  I  rang  off. 

The  explanation  was  a  little  funny.  Mary  tore 
Harold's  letter  into  bits  and  was  comically  dra- 


76  Privilege 

matic  in  her  refusal  to  obey  or  even  to  reply  to  it. 
Michael  was  puzzled  and  then  bored  and  finally 
incredulous.  He  sent  Mary  out  of  the  room  and 
demanded  details.  I  gave  them.  He  shook  a 
bewildered  head.  The  whole  thing  was  incom- 
prehensible to  him.  It  was  as  though  he  had  been 
suddenly  informed  that  titles  no  longer  existed. 
Gradually,  however,  he  saw  that  I  was  serious. 
With  the  realization  of  what  such  behavior  might 
mean  to  Braden,  he  froze  into  one  of  his  cold, 
contemptuous  rages.  He  apologized  with  grave 
formality  to  Mary  for  his  breakfast  indiscretion, 
pledged  himself  to  support  her  against  Harold,  and 
then  proceeded  to  write  out  the  following  telegram : 

"  Whern,  Whern  Royal. 

Go  to  hell. — Braden." 

I  was  reading  over  his  shoulder,  hardly  believing 
my  eyes. 

"But,  Michael " 

He  raised  a  pale,  interrogating  glance;  the  in- 
terruption annoyed  him. 

"It'll  be  all  over  the  place!  All  the  tenants 
will  hear  and  the  servants!  You  know  what  a 
gossip  Mrs.  Rundle  is!" 


The  Family  at  War  77 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  the  tenants,"  he  sneered; 
"not  even  of  the  servants." 

I  pleaded  with  him.  For  all  our  sakes  it  must 
not  be  heralded  abroad  that  Braden  was  divided 
against  itself.  A  letter,  at  least,  would  be  discreet. 
Perhaps  with  diplomacy  Harold  might  be  per- 
suaded to  change  his  mind.  But  Michael  was 
touched  in  his  tenderest  spot.  He  had  heard  the 
call  of  outraged  breeding  and  others  might  count 
the  cost.  It  was  only  when  I  argued  that  a  care- 
fully worded  and  sealed  refusal  might  wound 
Harold  more,  that  he  began  to  listen  to  reason. 
He  prided  himself  on  the  writing  of  elaborately 
sarcastic  letters.  The  opportunity  was  unique. 
At  last  he  tore  up  his  telegram  and  consented  to 
use  the  post,  but  of  conciliation  or  circumlocution 
he  would  hear  nothing. 

"Incidentally,"  he  said,  as  I  was  leaving  the 
room,  ' '  I  now  understand  an  interruption  the  night 
before  last  at  Bristol.  I  won't  repeat  it  to  you, 
but  it  invited  me  to  look  nearer  home  for  certain 
excesses  more  commonly  met  with  among  the 
vulgar." 

That  afternoon  I  had  little  mind  for  anything 
but  the  coming  breach.  Michael  could  be  trusted 
to  make   Harold   writhe.     To  be  insulted  and 


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shamed  at  a  public  meeting  would  be  gall  indeed 
and  it  was  in  the  first  smart  of  understanding  that 
he  was  writing  his  fatal  letter.  I  felt  I  should 
hold  my  breath  for  three  days. 

Nevertheless  the  time  crept  by  and  nothing 
happened.  I  began  to  wonder  if  the  letter  had 
arrived.  But  even  if  it  had  not,  Mary's  failure 
to  appear  on  the  appointed  Friday  would  have 
produced  some  result.  Then  one  evening  in  the 
club  I  heard  two  new  members  talking.  One  had 
a  book  he  was  apparently  recommending : 

" — First  rate  statement  of  the  case." 

"Who's  the  fellow?  Oh— Michael  Braden. 
Isn't  he  the  brother  of  the  chap  who  keeps  a  dis- 
orderly house  in  Wiltshire?" 

"I  don't  understand.  Braden's  brother  is 
Whern." 

"Yes — that's  the  name.  Haven't  you  heard 
about  it?    Good  Lord,  another  Medmenham " 

And  they  moved  away. 

I  sat  and  thought.  They  were  club  gossip  now, 
Harold's  debaucheries.  The  scandal  had  soon 
spread  beyond  the  family.  I  felt  a  violent  hatred 
of  Harold  tighten  the  fibers  of  my  brain.  That 
he  should  be  able  so  to  desecrate  Whern  and  her 
loveliness  and  our  good  names!    In  more  brutal 


The  Family  at  War  79 

days  we  should  organize  a  troop  of  bullies  and  do 
him  in.  I  went  home  to  bed  but  could  not  sleep 
for  the  misery  that,  the  more  bitter  for  its  tardi- 
ness, now  poisoned  my  habitual  nonchalance  of 
thought. 

It  was  barely  light  when  my  telephone  rang. 
Michael — his  voice,  always  impersonal,  sounded 
quite  dehumanized  across  the  wire — bade  me  come 
round  at  once.  "Harold  is  here,"  he  added. 
Through  the  deserted  streets  I  dragged  my  useless 
foot.  How  different  the  gray  was  from  that  of 
twilight!  The  lamps  were  burning,  but  instead 
of  conspiring  with  the  darkness  to  give  it  rich- 
ness and  secrecy,  they  strove  with  dull  resentment 
against  the  fumblings  of  dawn.  The  thousand 
lovers  who  had  trembled  homeward  through  the 
dusk  to  ecstasy  were  now  turning  uneasily  in  their 
sleep  of  weariness  and  shivering  under  the  thin 
veil  of  their  dreams. 

When  at  last  I  let  myself  in  at  Portman  Square, 
I  was  tired  and  nervous.  There  was  to  be  a 
quarrel  and  Harold  had  come  to  bluster  and  to 
threaten  us.  More  than  ever  I  loathed  him  for 
his  betrayal  of  our  honor.  I  went  straight  to 
Michael's  study.  A  fire  was  roaring  behind  the 
draft  screen  and,  from  between  the  bars,  an  un- 


8o  r      Privilege 

certain  light  colored  the  lower  stratum  of  the  air. 
Higher  and  above  the  level  of  the  grate  there  was 
only  black  grayness,  as  through  the  uncurtained 
window  the  paling  sky  looked  in  with  night- 
filled  eyes.  I  closed  the  door  behind  me  and  took 
in  the  figures  of  my  two  brothers.  Harold, 
wrapped  in  a  dark  coat,  sprawled  in  an  easy  chair; 
Michael,  in  trousers  and  a  dressing-gown,  stood  at 
the  mantelpiece.    There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"What  a  curious  hour,  Harold,"  I  began  easily. 
"Did  you  motor?" 

"Yes." 

He  answered  with  a  touch  of  eagerness,  as 
though  my  ordinary  enquiry  came  as  a  relief. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated.  "I  motored.  The  car  has 
gone  round  to  the  mews." 

"Beastly  cold,  I  should  think,"  I  said. 

"Rotten."    And  he  shivered  noisily. 

Michael  made  a  slight  jerking  movement.  To 
prevent  him  speaking  I  crossed  the  room  towards 
the  fire. 

"Let's  have  the  shutter  up.    It's  caught  now." 

As  I  threw  back  the  slide,  the  bright  light 
splashed  like  a  sudden  wave  up  the  bulk  of  Harold's 
muffled  body  and  broke  upon  his  face.  It  was 
pale  and  sullen,  and  a  pipe  drooped  from  the  corner 


The  Family  at  War  81 

of  his  mouth.  I  turned  once  more  to  the  dancing 
flames  and  held  out  my  cold  hands.  I  was  think- 
ing hard  and  decided  to  forestall  Michael  in  bring- 
ing the  assembly  to  business. 

"I  suppose,"  I  said,  looking  into  the  fire  and 
enjoying  the  unstable  brilliance  that  leapt  and 
sank  again  and  leapt  not  quite  so  high  a  second 
time,  "that  Harold  has  come  about  Mary.  I  am 
sorry  I  have  had  to  keep  you  waiting  and  have 
missed  the  early  conversation.  Might  I  hear 
briefly  what  has  happened?" 

"Mary  must  come  home,"  replied  Harold  qui- 
etly.   "I  want  her." 

"How— want  her?" 

"As  hostess,  of  course,  you  fool." 

I  ignored  the  rudeness,  and  went  on  as  calmly 
as  I  could. 

"Come,  Harold.    There's  something  more." 

"Well,  if  there  is,  you  won't  get  it,"  he  said  with 
a  short  laugh.  "It's  enough  that  I  say  she  is  to 
come.  You  forget  she  is  not  twenty-one  for  two 
years  yet.    Time  enough  for  heroics  after  that." 

I  was  silent  and  Michael  broke  in  with  his 
studied  drawl. 

"The  point  is — now  that  you  have  finished  your 
little  conversation  about  the  weather — that  Harold 

6 


82  Privilege 

has  come  to  command.  I  have  already  refused  to 
obey.    What  do  you  say  ? " 

"I  refuse  also,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Harold  struggled  from  the  depths  of  his  chair 
and  walked  towards  us.  Out  of  the  corner  of  my 
eye  I  saw  Michael's  feet  nervously  taut  against 
the  curb.  They  never  moved.  I  remained  on  my 
knees,  my  face  towards  the  fire.  I  could  hear 
Harold's  heavy  coat  swing  sulkily  as  he  moved. 
He  stopped  a  yard  behind  me. 

"Rebellion,  eh?"  he  asked.  "You  realize  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  crushing  a  rebellion?  As  I  could 
crush  your  miserable  skulls  if  I  wanted  to!"  he 
added  ferociously. 

"Don't  lose  your  temper,  Harold.  I'm  not 
frightened  of  you,  nor  likely  to  be.  Better  spare 
the  effort." 

I  heard  Harold  turn  and  stride  away  down  the 
room.  I  hobbled  on  my  knees  to  a  pouf  at  the 
side  of  the  fireplace  and  faced  the  room.  The  light 
was  getting  stronger.  Tall  bookshelves  alternated 
with  spaces  of  pale  wall.  Harold's  angry  bulk 
swayed  slowly  to  the  far  window,  heaved  round 
and  moved  menacingly  forward  once  again.  When 
he  spoke,  I  knew  that  Michael's  contempt  had 
pricked  the  bubble  of  his  violence. 


The  Family  at  War  83 

"All  right,  then.  You  challenge  me  to  carry- 
little  Mary  off.  But  I  shan't  do  that.  You're 
welcome  to  the .  You  won't,  however,  ex- 
pect to  receive  any  further  subsidy  from  Whern, 
will  you?" 

I  almost  laughed  with  surprise.  He  was  cutting 
us  off  with  a  shilling !  I  wanted  to  ask  whose  idea 
it  was.     Michael  shrugged. 

' '  Your  harem  will  welcome  the  extra  cash.  You 
will  of  course  bear  the  entail  in  mind.  As  for  Mary, 
the  last  word  has  been  said." 

Harold  was  searching  for  his  gloves  in  the  depths 
of  the  armchair.  Without  a  word,  having  but- 
toned his  coat,  he  drew  them  on  and  pulled  a  cap 
over  his  eyes. 

"You'll  miss  all  this,"  he  said  carelessly  mo- 
tioning with  his  hand  to  the  long,  luxurious 
room. 

"Shall  I?"  asked  Michael. 

" — because,"  went  on  Harold,  as  though  no  one 
had  interrupted,  "I  am  selling  this  house  in  four 
hours'  time — with  immediate  possession.  The 
buyer  will  expect  all  the  furniture  and  objects  that 
do  not  belong  to  me  and  therefore  not  to  him  to  be 
cleared  out  within  one  week.  I  hope  you  will  find 
comfortable  quarters.    So  long!" 


$4  Privilege 

And  he  went  out,  shutting  the  door  noisily 
behind  him. 

I  looked  at  Michael.  He  was  staring  at  the 
closed  door,  motionless  and  pale.  At  last  he 
turned  to  me  and  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"On  the  whole  I  think  Harold  has  won,"  I  said. 
"How  much  have  you  to  live  on?  I  think  I  have 
about  two  hundred  pounds  a  year." 

Michael  shook  himself  impatiently. 

"Oh,  that!  I  can  go  to  a  dozen  places.  But  the 
damned  insolence " 

' '  The  rights  of  property  must  be  kept  inviolate, 
Michael,"  I  quoted  unkindly.  "We  are  experienc- 
ing for  once  the  joys  of  the  under  dog.  Our  land- 
lord has  turned  us  out  and  we  have  no  remedy. 
Our  wages  are  suddenly  cut  off — and  again  we  have 
no  remedy.    Rotten,  isn't  it?" 

He  turned  his  back  on  me  and  stood,  biting  his 
ringers  and  gazing  at  the  fire.  I  heard  a  servant 
stirring  on  the  drawing-room  floor  below  and  went 
in  search  of  her  or  him  and  food. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  PASSING  OF  HAROLD 


It  was  strange  how  little  immediate  outward 
difference  to  our  lives  was  caused  by  Harold's 
drastic  punishment.  Certainly  appearances  were 
not  kept  up  without  an  effort  and  the  process  was, 
to  my  thinking,  the  most  distasteful  feature  of  the 
new  life.  But  Michael  insisted.  He  pointed  out 
that  real  damage  might  be  done  to  the  cause  of 
aristocracy  (and  incidentally  to  his  own  political 
prospects)  by  a  public  scandal.  He  virtually  for- 
bade me  to  leave  Fitzroy  Square,  although  I  had 
reconciled  myself  to  a  hunt  for  lodgings  in  Highgate 
or  Westbourne  Park  or  Battersea. 

"Bloomsbury  or  whatever  it  is,"  he  said,  "is  bad 
enough,  but  then  people  know  you  are  a  freak;  it's 
a  fine  old  house,  and  your  neighborhood  is  so 
fantastic  that  only  deliberate  choice  can  explain 
your  being  there.    But  rooms  at  thirty  shillings  a 

85 


86  Privilege 

week!  They  would  be  plain  necessity,  and  neces- 
sity cannot  drive  a  Braden." 

I  explained  I  could  hardly  continue  to  pay  £100 
a  year  for  rent  alone  out  of  an  income  of  £250. 

"I'll  arrange,"  said  Michael.  .  .  .  "Tell  me 
when  you  get  into  difficulties." 

He  transferred  his  own  belongings  to  an  elegant 
flat  in  Queen  Anne's  Mansions.  It  later  transpired 
that  the  flat  belonged  to  a  wealthy  manufacturer 
in  the  Midlands,  who  desired  social  advancement 
and  the  survival  of  the  existing  order.  At  a  po- 
litical dinner  he  had  heard  Michael  say  that  "we" 
had  sold  our  house  in  Portman  Square.  The 
transaction  was  apparently  a  relief  in  that  it  set 
the  speaker  free  to  find  a  quieter  and  more  central 
place  in  which  to  work.  The  manufacturer  drew 
Michael  aside.    He  would  be  greatly  honored   .  .  . 

Acceptance  of  such  a  favor  from  commerce  may 
seem  inconsistent,  but  it  was  logical  enough. 
Whatever  makes  life  easier  for  the  ruling  class  is 
justifiable  and  natural;  the  duty  of  the  rest  is  to 
help.  To  make  a  fetish  of  independence  and  to 
distrust  charity  is  characteristic  of  the  erstwhile 
slave.  Aristocracy  has  the  same  right  to  gifts  from 
inferiors  as  have  victorious  kings  to  tribute  from 
their  vassals. 


The  Passing  of  Harold  87 

I  am  doubtful  whether,  had  not  Harold  chosen 
to  remain  invisible  at  Whern  and  but  for  the 
chance  that  Monica  was  out  of  England,  we  should 
have  succeeded  in  keeping  all  hint  of  scandal  from 
the  papers.  Anthony's  absence  was  convenient, 
but  less  essential.  He  was  manageable.  There 
was  no  danger  from  Mary.  She  was  in  the  secret 
and  not  likely  to  feel  anxious  to  divulge  it.  She 
declared  a  sudden  intention  of  going  to  college,  and 
the  trustees  of  her  small  private  income  (like  the 
rest  of  us  she  had  inherited  a  little  money  from 
our  mother)  raised  no  objection.  Also  we  had 
singularly  few  relations  and  my  father  was  not 
the  kind  of  man  to  have  made  many  friends,  so 
that  the  kindly  peering  of  an  older  generation  was 
not  greatly  to  be  feared.  Thus  assisted  by  fortune, 
we  acted  with  promptitude  and  discretion.  People 
wondered,  a  few  talked,  but  the  one  or  two  out- 
siders who  knew  the  truth  (the  bank  manager,  for 
instance,  and  Mary's  trustees)  held  their  tongues. 

With  Monica  on  the  spot,  however,  things  would 
have  been  more  difficult  to  manage.  She  was 
herself  quick-tempered  and  careless- tongued,  her 
friends  were  amateurs  of  indiscretion.  So  palatable 
a  piece  of  gossip  as  the  degradation  of  Whern  and 
the  forcible  abduction  of  Mary  would  have  been 


88  Privilege 

irresistible:  Fortunately  Monica's  absence  facili- 
tated falsehood.  After  consulting  Michael,  I 
wrote  to  her  describing  some  alarming  discoveries 
made  during  an  overhauling  of  the  family  finances. 
Numerous  investments  had  proved  unsound; 
heavy  repairs  to  Whern  were  necessary.  I  ex- 
plained the  selling  of  Portman  Square  as  an  im- 
mediate means  of  raising  money.  Although,  so 
far  as  we  knew,  Harold  would  continue  to  pay 
her  and  Anthony's  allowances  (they  were  not 
involved  in  the  quarrel),  it  seemed  wise  to  be  pre- 
pared for  disaster  and  I  therefore  hinted  that  the 
estate  might  find  itself  so  embarrassed  that  allow- 
ances would  have  to  be  reduced  or  temporarily 
suspended.  It  was  a  good  letter,  full  of  the  most 
beautiful  lies.  Monica's  reply  deserves  reproduc- 
tion here 

Dear  Dick, 

I  hope  to  God  you  haven't  gone  and  sold  my 
Bouchers  with  P.  Square.  There  are  four  and  an 
album  of  naughty  French  moderns.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  lose  them.  What  have  you  done  with  my  clothes? 
It's  monstrous  to  start  selling  everything  you  can 
lay  your  hands  on  as  soon  as  my  back  is  turned.  I 
wonder  you  didn't  raise  money  on  my  hair  and  wire 
for  it  to  be  cut  off  and  sent  by  registered  post.  It's  a 
rare  color  and  must  be  worth  several  pounds. 


The  Passing  of  Harold  #9 

Tell  Harold  he'd  better  try  monkeying  about  with 
my  allowance!  I  haven't  the  least  intention  of  econo- 
mizing. Anyway,  in  order  to  be  on  the  safe  side, 
I've  blushingly  affianced  myself  to  a  Hungarian. 
Frightfully  rich.  I  can't  spell  his  name  or  I'd  tell  it 
you.  I  call  him  Putzi.  We  move  to  Cap  Martin 
on  Tuesday. 

Yours, 
M. 

Michael's  face,  as  he  read  this  production,  was 
a  masterpiece  of  bewildered  disgust.  He  handed 
the  letter  back  with  a  sniff  of  contempt. 

"Putzi— !"  he  said. 


II 

The  weeks  passed  and  April  blustered  into  Lon- 
don. Existence  began  to  seem  cramped  and  unreal. 
I  had  never  lived  extravagantly,  but  I  missed  my 
valet  and  a  motor  when  I  needed  it  and  the  thou- 
sand costly  trifles  that  I  had  assumed  to  be  ne- 
cessaries. Even  as  it  was,  and  after  only  a  month, 
I  wras  badly  overdrawn  at  the  bank.  But  most  of 
all  did  the  breach  with  Whern  bother  me.  I  felt 
a  longing  for  the  restless  sighing  of  the  untidy 
woods,  for  the  skirl  of  wrings  over  the  rich  pur- 
ple plowland,  for  the  bunched  stiffness  of  the  ilex 


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groves   whose   evergreen   was  at   no  time   more 
somber   than   at   this  eleventh  hour  of   winter. 
My  desire  for  Whern  became  so  intolerable  that 
I  could  no  longer  sit  at  home  in  the  evenings,  and 
formed  the  habit  of  going  to  some  music-hall, 
concert,    or    picture-house.      Theaters    proper   I 
avoided.    They  would  mean  awkward  encounters, 
and,  though  I  was  a  poor  man  now,  I  had  the  stall- 
habit,  and  preferred  not  to  go,  rather  than  to 
stand  for  the  pit  or  intrude  on  the  small  romances 
of  the  upper  circle.    The  darkness  and  anonymity 
of  the  cinema  soothed  my  nervousness.    I  enjoyed 
the  subdued  murmur  of  talk,  the  darting  flash  of 
the  electric  torches,  the  combination  of  visible  and 
soundless  screen-action  and  invisible  but  highly 
audible  orchestra,  the  sudden  and  fugitive  friend- 
ships made  with  attractive  neighbors.    Ever  more 
frequently  was  I  tempted  to  the  entertainments  of 
the  class  to  which  I  now  belonged.     One  night, 
out  of  curiosity,  I  went  to  a  large  and  sumptuous 
picture   theater   recently   opened   near    Leicester 
Square.     I  preferred  the  simple  hall  with  sloped 
seats  and  this  ornate  misapplication  to  film  plays 
of  the  conventional  theater  structure — circle  and 
boxes  and  proscenium  arch — irritated  me  by  its 
slavish  snobbery.     Before  the   "feature"   began 


The  Passing  of  Harold  91 

the  lights  went  up  and  there  was  much  passing  in 
and  out.  Glancing  critically  at  the  frescoed  ceiling 
and  at  the  decorative  orgy  of  gilded  knobs  and 
scrolls — then  as  now  the  ideal  of  people  who  prefer 
the  word  "luxury"  translated  into  French — I  saw 
Michael  in  a  box.  He  was  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  so  that  his  face  was  an  attenuated  cameo 
against  the  darkness  of  the  inner  wall.  Between 
him  and  the  screen,  and  turned  towards  me  as  she 
gazed  about  the  house,  was  a  young  woman  in  a 
dark  red  evening  dress.  She  was  a  stranger  to  me 
although  her  face  was  vaguely  familiar.  I  noticed 
her  glowing  color  and  the  copper  lights  in  her  dark 
hair.  Michael  spoke  to  her  and  she  turned  to 
answer  him.  The  lights  began  to  fade  and,  as  one 
by  one  the  glimmering  reflections  of  the  gilded 
theater  sank  into  blackness,  I  watched  her  neck 
and  shoulders  harden  from  warm  cream  to  dusky 
white. 

In  the  foyer  after  the  performance  I  came  face 
to  face  with  Michael.  I  had  forgotten  his  presence 
and  locked  round  for  his  companion.  As  she  came 
forward — 

"Lady  Dawlish,"  he  said,  "may  I  introduce  my 
brother  Richard?" 

She  was  now  muffled  in  a  huge  sable  coat,  and 


92  Privilege 

I  saw  diamonds  sparkling  here  and  there  in  the 
fiery  shadows  of  her  hair. 

"How  did  you  persuade  Michael  to  anything 
so  frivolous  as  the  movies?"  I  asked. 

She  laughed  gayly  at  my  brother,  who  smiled 
with  evident  delight. 

41 1  return  the  compliment,  Dick.  I  didn't  know 
you  ever  sank  to  any  place  of  entertainment.  He 
is  a  serious  young  man,"  he  told  Lady  Dawlish, 
"and  finds  relaxation  in  collating  incunabula." 

We  had  reached  the  door  and  I  saw  a  covered 
car  standing  at  the  curb. 

"Come  and  have  some  supper?"  said  Michael. 

"I  am  sure  Lady  Dawlish  will  forgive  me,"  I 
said,  "but  in  these  clothes  I  can  hardly   .    .    ." 

Michael  would  have  gone  to  Covent  Garden  in 
pyjamas,  had  circumstances  made  it  essential.  He 
was  above  fashion  and  would  explain  that  he  wore 
evening  dress  at  night  because  it  was  comfortable. 
His  tone  suggested  that  he  had  invented  it.  But 
I  was  less  assured,  and  Lady  Dawlish  must  have 
seen  it  in  my  eye. 

"Let  us  go  home,"  she  said,  "and  then  Mr. 
Braden  will  come  with  us.  Besides  the  Savoy  is 
so  noisy  and  hot." 

She  entered  the  car  and  I  followed.     Michael 


The  Passing  of  Harold  93 

gave  an  instruction  to  the  chauffeur  and  closed 
the  door  after  him.  As  we  nosed  our  way  through 
the  midnight  mart  of  Piccadilly,  Michael  talked 
with  an  almost  foolish  inconsequence.  His  usual 
cold  precision  had  vanished  into  gay  excitement; 
it  was  like  seeing  a  proud  and  slender  candle 
guttering  into  a  fantastic  lump  of  wax.  I  welcomed 
his  garrulity,  as  it  gave  me  time  to  collect  my 
thoughts. 

So  this  was  Barbara  Dawlish.  As  soon  as  I 
heard  her  name  I  realized  why  I  had,  so  to  speak, 
a  black  and  white  knowledge  of  her  face.  Sold  at 
seventeen  by  an  avaricious  father  to  old  Sir 
Meredith  Dawlish,  she  had  earned  her  widowing 
by  eight  years'  unhappiness.  Under  the  will,  she 
enjoyed  the  Dawlish  fortune  until  she  chose  to 
marry  a  second  time.  The  illustrated  papers,  at 
the  time  of  the  old  man's  death,  were  full  of  her 
portrait,  of  insolent  sympathy  and  sycophant  ad- 
miration. I  tried  in  vain  to  remember  having 
heard  Michael  speak  of  her.  Yet  he  now  seemed 
intimate  and  in  an  exalted  state  of  mind  that  could 
have  only  one  explanation.  The  affair  was 
interesting. 

She  was  certainly  very  beautiful.     When  we 
were  in  her  drawing-room  and  she  had  thrown  off 


94  Privilege 

her  cloak  I  should  have  been  content  to  sit  and 
watch  her  slow,  rich  movements  and  the  reluctant 
melancholy  of  her  smile.  At  first  sight  she  had 
seemed  southern  in  her  warm  coloring,  but  I  could 
now  see  that  she  had  a  fair  English  skin  and  gray 
eyes.  The  dark  glow  of  her  came  from  within,  so 
that  her  face  was  a  window  through  which  shone 
steadily  the  light  of  her  passionate  patience.  As 
she  talked  and  laughed  I  noticed  that  her  hand 
would  every  now  and  again  fall  listlessly  by  her 
side  and  hang  like  a  wilted  flower  against  the  dark 
red  of  her  gown. 

All  the  time  Michael  was  devouring  her  with 
his  eyes.  In  his  absorption  he  was  more  than 
distinguished ;  he  became  extremely  handsome.  I 
found  myself  comparing  them  and  their  respective 
nobilities.  Her  deep-breasted  graciOusness  and  his 
lean  arrogance.  .  .  .  She  was  at  once  the  mother 
and  the  queen,  generous  in  sympathy,  imperious 
in  anger.  He  had  the  pathos  of  the  lonely  despot, 
pale,  unyielding,  the  fine  steel  of  him  tempered  by 
generations  of  careful  breeding  to  something  as 
supple  and  as  strong  as  whipcord. 

To  my  astonishment  I  heard  two  o'clock  strike. 
I  felt  I  had  known  Lady  Dawlish  and  this  quiet 
comfortable  room  all  my  life.    I  rose  to  go. 


The  Passing  of  Harold  95 

;i  Where  do  you  live,  Mr.  Braden?" 

"In  Fitzroy  Square." 

"But  that  is  a  long  way.' 

"Perhaps  I  shall  find  a  cab.    If  not,  I  can  walk." 

"  Of  course  you  must  not  walk !  I  will  drive  you 
home."     Picking  up  her  cloak,  she  left  the  room. 

"Michael,  can't  you  dissuade  Lady  Dawlish 
.  .  .  ?  It  is  really  absurd.  ...  I  suppose  she 
saw  my  foot." 

He  smiled. 

"She's  an  angel,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Tradition  is  against  inquisitive  probing.  I 
longed  to  ask  how  matters  stood,  but  could  not. 
We  waited  in  awkward  silence.  In  a  few  minutes 
she  came  in  again,  wearing  a  tight  fur  cap  and  a 
leather  overcoat. 

"Where's  the  car?"  asked  Michael. 

"At  the  door,"  she  smiled.  "I  said  I  should 
want  it." 

I  tried  to  express  gratitude  for  all  this  thought- 
fulness,  but  nowadays  we  have  lost  the  secret  of 
graceful  speech. 

"Really  awfully  good  .  .  .  rotten  bore  .  .  . 
wish  you  wouldn't  ..." 

"It  is  partly  selfishness,"  she  said,  "I  shall  need 
to  be  on  good  terms  with  my  brother-in-law." 


96  Privilege 

' '  How  splendid ! "  I  cried.  ' '  Michael,  I  am  most 
awfully  glad.  But  you  have  been  very  discreet. 
Is  this  an  arrangement  of  long  standing?" 

"Not  very,"  they  replied  and  looked  at  each 
other  as  only  lovers  can. 

•  •»•••• 

A  few  days  later  I  rang  up  Lady  Dawlish  from 
the  Museum  and  asked  myself  to  tea.  It  was  an 
afternoon  of  clean  April  sunshine.  The  pavements 
were  drying  rapidly;  the  sky  was  a  washed  blue. 
As  I  walked  from  Down  Street  I  wondered  how 
much  she  knew  of  the  family  troubles.  Michael 
was  in  the  north,  and  I  had  not  seen  him  since  a 
quarter  to  three  on  that  cold,  rainy  morning  when 
she  drove  me  home.  This  was  frankly  a  visit  of 
reconnaissance. 

"How  nice  of  you  to  come  J  Now  tell  me  all 
about  Michael  and  what  he  was  like  before  I  knew 
him,  and  about  your  sisters  and  brothers,  and 
about  Whern — oh,  and  about  yourself!"  she  con- 
cluded with  mock  apology. 

"Please  tell  me  first  how  much  you  know." 

"The  frankness  of  diplomacy!  Well,  I  know 
about  the  row  and  that  you  stood  by  Michael. 
He  told  me  of  you  before  we  met.  Where  is  the 
rescued  maiden?" 


The  Passing  of  Harold  97 

"She's  with  some  cousins  near  Cambridge.  She 
starts  at  Newnham  next  term.  I'm  glad  you  know 
all  you  do.  It  makes  things  easier.  Michael  is 
the  bravest  thing  alive  and  the  most  honorable. 
But  it's  no  use  pretending  the  situation  is  satis- 
factory. Harold  may  emerge  from  his  lair  at  any 
moment  and  cause  trouble.  If  he  sees  a  chance  of 
doing  harm  to  Michael,  he  will  take  it.  So  I  hope 
that  for  the  moment  you  will  use  your  great  influ- 
ence for  caution.  Michael  can  get  what  he  likes 
when  he  wants  it.  He  will  lose  nothing  by  waiting 
a  little." 

She  nodded  and  sat  for  a  while  looking  at  the 
fire,  I  studied  the  ardent  curve  of  her  cheek  and 
the  burnished  hair  swept  low  over  her  broad  white 
temple. 

"You  are  a  public  character  since  that  iniquitous 
will  was  known,"  I  went  on,  "and  I  should  like  to 
thank  you  for  caring  enough  for  Michael  to  lose 
your  money.    For  he  has  none  now,  you  know." 

She  tossed  her  head. 

"My  husband  was  not  only  a  brute.  He  was 
something  of  a  fool.  He  left  a  loophole  for  econ- 
omy and  I  have  saved  a  bit  these  two  years.  It  is 
for  Michael  to  use  as  he  pleases." 

"And  when  is  the  ceremony?"  I  asked. 


98  Privilege 

1 '  Very  soon  now, "  she  replied.  ' '  It  will  be  very 
quiet;  almost  inaudible." 

"Shall  I  be  asked?" 

"On  the  whole,  I  think  so." 

I  wrote  to  Michael  describing  my  visit  and 
warning  him  that  I  was  dangerously  infatuated 
with  his  fiancSe. 


Ill 


Michael's  wedding  was  a  little  comical.  The 
handful  of  guests  were  not  equally  informed  of  our 
equivocal  family  relations,  so  that  Barbara's  con- 
nections marveled  at  the  unobtrusive  simplicity 
of  the  ceremony,  while  one  or  two  of  our  friends 
sought  dexterously  for  confirmation  of  their  belief 
that  Michael  was  marrying  for  money. 

The  bride's  brother,  an  Anglo-Indian  colonel 
with  a  reedy  voice  and  a  clear,  blue  eye,  incau- 
tiously opened  his  mind  to  me  without  finding  out 
who  I  was. 

"Damn  queer  show!"  he  said.  "Feller  in  Bra- 
den's  position  marryin'  like  a  suburban  doctor. 
Bin  a  row  with  the  brother,  eh?  All  the  same  I 
don't  fancy  this  hole-'n-corner  business,  A  wed- 
din's  a  weddin',  that's  what  I  say." 


The  Passing  of  Harold  99 

I  was  embarrassed.  After  all  this  man  was  head 
of  the  bride's  family.  I  had  asked  Barbara  what 
he  would  think,  when  she  had  excluded  even  her 
brother  from  enlightenment.  "Dear  old  Jim 
never  thinks,"  she  had  replied.  "He'll  grouse  a 
bit  maybe,  but  he'll  do  what  he  has  to  do  and 
stand  by  me."  I- appreciated  this  unquestioning 
loyalty,  but  regretted  my  present  role  of  confidant. 
A  freakish  idea  came  to  me  to  tell  him  that  my  top 
hat  was  borrowed.  I  sought  in  vain  for  a  way  of 
escape.  It  was  provided  unexpectedly  by  the 
twins'  mother.  Over  my  shoulder  I  heard  her, 
like  a  peroxide  cheese,  oozing  indiscretion. 

"Sodignifai  .  .  .  ed!  He  hasn't  a  penny,  not 
a  penny,  my  dear!  But  then  of  co  .  .  .  arse 
dear  Barbara   ...   a  ...    " 

I  abandoned  the  brother  to  his  puzzlement. 
Lady  Chaldon  must  be  silenced. 

"Agatha,  they  tell  me  you  are  to  get  a  diploma — 
for  your  latest  hygienic  improprieties.  Are  you 
going  on  the  stage?"  She  twinkled  her  foolish 
little  eyes  through  the  white  mesh  of  her  veil. 

"Stopping  me  mouth,  Richard?  He  knows  his 
little  chatterbox.  Won't  you  tell  me — quai  .  .  .te 
confy — what  these  two  darlin's  are  goin'  to  live 
on?" 


ioo  Privilege 

"My  dear  Agatha,  how  should  I  know?  Where 
are  your  preposterous  babies?" 

"Edwahdislookin'after'em.  Ed — wahd!  There 
he  is!    Hush!    He-ahs  the  bridegroom.   ..." 

Michael  shook  hands. 

"Kind  of  you  to  come,  Agatha.  May  I  take 
Dick  away  one  minute?" 

I  followed  him  upstairs. 

"This  has  just  come,"  he  said,  handing  me  a 
book.  It  was  a  superb  copy  of  the  rarest  edition 
of  Eikoov  ftaffiXixri  luxuriously  bound.  Slipped  be- 
tween the  pages  was  Harold's  card. 

"Pretty  good — for  Harold?"  said  Michael  with 
his  quiet  smile. 


IV 


They  went  to  Shropshire  for  a  honeymoon. 
Alone,  I  found  existence  in  London  intolerable. 
I  was  really  hard  up  and  began  to  sell  my  books. 
I  dared  not  see  our  former  friends  for  the  expense 
their  manner  of  life  would  inevitably  cause  me. 
I  tried  to  work,  but  was  restless  and  unable  to 
concentrate.  It  seemed  that  my  foot  became 
actually  painful,  although  I  knew  that  the  ache 
was  in  my  heart.    Wiltshire  and  its  riot  of  roses 


The  Passing  of  Harold         101 

shimmered  alluringly.  I  could  not  even  buy  a 
holiday  for,  though  I  could  get  my  food  and  clothes 
on  credit,  there  is  no  running  tick  for  railway  fares. 
Six  weeks  of  this  torment  of  lonely  poverty  brought 
me,  I  hope,  to  some  realization  of  the  abominable 
burden  of  penniless  respectability.  Champions  of 
the  proletariat  made  me  impatient  with  their 
clamor  of  working-class  hardship.  Fortunate  souls 
who  have  no  profit  from  clean  linen!  Passing 
through  the  Reading-Room  one  day  at  the  Mu- 
seum an  absurd  impulse  of  sympathy  led  me 
to  address  a  middle-aged  man  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  his  coat  was  green  and  frayed  and  his 
thin  boots  patched  and  shapeless.  He  was  peering 
with  weak  eyes  at  some  revolting  encyclopedia. 
I  had  nothing  to  say  and  found  myself  almost 
involuntarily  asking : 

"Can  I  get  any  other  books  for  you?" 

The  ineptitude  of  it !  He  looked  up  cringingly. 
Not  having  heard,  he  expected  reproof.  What 
did  I  say?  I  repeated  the  remark.  Its  futility 
was  so  patent  that  his  servility  became  suspicion. 
I  was  either  mad  or  feebly  officious. 

"I  know  how  to  get  the  books  I  want,"  he 
snapped,  and  turned  his  back. 

I  began  to  sleep  badly,  lying  awake  and  tor- 


102  Privilege 

meriting  myself  with  the  vision  of  years  of  this 
drab  beastliness.  Six  weeks,  with  the  vital  allevia- 
tion of  still  courteous  tradespeople,  had  thus 
embittered  me.  To  what  fierce  resentment  or  to 
what  bestial  apathy  would  I  have  come  after  six 
months? 

And  then  one  morning  Anthony  was  shown  into 
my  room  at  the  Museum.  He  was  little  changed; 
perhaps  a  shade  more  solid;  but  his  pale  delicacy 
had  all  its  wistful  charm.  He  dusted  with  his 
handkerchief  the  chair  I  offered  him,  threw  the 
lock  of  fair  hair  off  his  forehead  with  the  old 
impatient  gesture,  and  regarded  me  with  smil- 
ing eyes.  One  arm  he  crooked  over  the  chair 
back,  the  other  he  flung  gracefully  outwards 
supporting  the  wrist  in  the  loop  of  a  tall  ebony 
stick. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you!"  I 
said.  "I  was  just  fed  up  and  you  are  a  positive 
sensation.  Where  have  you  been  and  have  you 
had  a  good  time?" 

"Dear  Richard,"  he  murmured,  "your  honest 
face  again.  .  .  .  Ceylon  is  so  beautiful.  And 
the  brown  slenderness  of  girls.  Where  have  I 
been?  Where  not?  I  am  old  with  the  sins  of 
ancient   empires,  and   in   the  dust   of  vanished 


The  Passing  of  Harold         103 

majesties  my  footprints  tell  their  silent  tale.  Also 
I'm  damned  hard  up." 

I  laughed.    "So  you  come  to  me?" 

"  .  .  .to  hear  what  has  happened.  What  is 
this  tiresome  quarrel?  I  hear  rumors  and  more 
rumors.  I  go  to  your  rooms  and  the  door  is  locked 
and  no  sign  of  Roberts.  I  go  to  Portman  Square 
and  a  strange  butler  hounds  me  from  the  door. 
It's  fatiguing  and  absurd.  It  makes  me  look  a 
fool.    I  am  seriously  annoyed." 

I  summarized  the  position.  He  examined  his 
finger-nails  and  raised  his  eyebrows  once  or  twice. 
As  I  described  the  decadence  of  Whern  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  twitched  a  little.  The  story  over,  he 
swung  to  his  feet  and  yawned. 

"Good  Lord!  What  fusses!  I  like  to  think  of 
you  hiding  in  that  passage.  In  an  embrasure. 
Harold  is  full  of  fun.  So  you  and  Michael  are 
disinherited,  and  Monica  and  I  are  not?  Juliette 
and  Justine  over  again.  But,  seriously,  how 
childish!  I  must  bring  you  together  again.  I 
must  assemble  the  parts!  I  must  really.  I  am 
a  wonderful  assembler.  You  will  dine  with  me 
to-night  at  Kettner's  and  to-morrow  I  go  to  Whern. 
At  eight  o'clock?    Excellent.    Ask  for  my  cabinet." 

He  glided  away  and  the  draft  of  his  movement 


104  Privilege 

rocked  a  trail  of  scent  along  the  frowzy  air.  I 
frowned  my  perplexity  at  the  inkstand-  The 
stimmung  was  wrong  somehow.  He  was  still 
pathetically  young  and  smooth  and  beautiful. 
But  the  eagerness  was  gone  from  his  posing.  The 
precocity  of  the  boy  had  become  the  affectation 
of  the  .  .  .  no,  not  even  of  the  man.  I  wondered 
what  sort  of  people  were  his  friends ;  who,  indeed, 
had  been  his  traveling  companions.  There  was 
a  heaviness  about  the  eyes  that  seemed  premature. 
After  all  he  was  barely  twenty.  And  the  gold 
chain-bangle,  the  suede  shoes.  .  .  .  Again  I 
wondered  in  what  company  the  journey  had  been 
made. 

Kettner's  provided  the  answer.  In  the  draped 
and  tasseled  privacy  of  the  upstairs  room  I  found 
three  men  besides  Anthony.  Two  were  complete 
strangers;  the  third  was  Walter,  the  twins' 
brother.  He  greeted  me  with  constraint  and  I 
was  struck  with  the  brilliance  of  his  eyes.  Anthony 
introduced  me  to  Captain  Ferner  and  to  Mr. 
Pryce  Arcott.  The  former  was  stout  and  highly 
colored,  with  thick  Jewish  lips  and  a  powerful 
hairy  hand.  The  latter  was  sallow  and  very  dark, 
so  dark  that  one  thought  instantly  of  Indian  blood. 
As  he  took  my  hand  with  his  long,  lithe  fingers  I 


The  Passing  of  Harold         105 

groped  in  my  memory  for  the  reason  of  the  faint 
familiarity  of  his  name. 

The  meal  was  expensive  and  elaborately  chosen. 
There  was  plenty  of  champagne  and  talk  became 
suggestive  and  hilarious.  It  was  soon  clear  that 
Ferner  and  Arcott  had  been  with  Anthony  abroad. 
They  were  continually  reminded  of  some  humorous 
or  delightful  incident,  that  necessitated  oblique 
reference  and  rather  forced  merriment.  Walter 
began  to  play  the  pitiful  comedy  of  white  aping 
black.  His  attempts  to  assert  himself  against  the 
conspiracy  of  unsavory  memory  that  was  the 
foundation  of  the  others'  intimacy  became  more 
and  more  grotesque.  I  am  afraid  that,  while  I 
was  often  amused  by  the  bawdy  humor  of  Ferner 
or  Arcott,  I  felt — and  could  not  disguise — disgust 
at  this  boy's  crude  extremism.  I  fell  silent  and 
watched  him.  In  the  brilliant  light  I  could  now 
see  that  his  eyelids  were  darkened  and  that  the 
red  of  his  lips  was  unnaturally  ripe.  It  was  a  relief 
to  find  Anthony  innocent,  at  least,  of  maquillage. 
I  made  an  opportunity  of  drawing  my  brother 
aside. 

"Are  you  going  to  Whern?" 

"To-morrow  afternoon." 

"Where  are  you  staying  to-night?" 


106  Privilege 

"With  Arcott.     Flat  in  Jermyn  Street." 

"All  right.  You'll  find  me  at  the  Museum  in 
the  morning." 

"I'll  come  if  lean." 

Shortly  after  I  took  my  leave.  I  had  found  out 
enough  to  make  me  wish  more  than  ever  that 
Michael  was  in  town.  Also  I  wanted  to  revive 
my  memory  of  Pryce  Arcott's  name  and  some- 
where in  Fitzroy  Square  I  had  a  file  of  notes.  .  .  . 
Outside  soft  summer  rain  was  falling.  As  I  went 
slowly  home  through  the  whispering  lamplight  I 
faced  my  share  of  the  blame  for  our  neglect  to 
realize  that  Anthony  was  growing  up. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  July  that  I  got  Harold's 
letter.  He  wanted  to  see  me  at  Whern.  Could  I 
go  instantly?  I  sold  an  etching  for  half  its  value, 
bought  a  few  necessaries  and  a  ticket,  and  was  on 
Laylham  platform  two  days  later.  I  remember 
still  the  intoxication  of  that  motor  drive,  the  soft 
cushions,  the  quiet  mutter  of  the  engine,  and,  on 
each  side  of  the  flowery  road,  the  compassionate 
splendor  of  summer.  I  craned  my  neck  to  catch 
a  first  glimpse  of  the  huge  gateway  to  the  park,  a 
plaster  fortress  with  a  portcullis  of  matchboarding 
and  a  groined  roof  as  touchingly  absurd  as  ever 
frowned  over  the  cantings  of  provincial  melodrama. 


The  Passing  of  Harold         107 

Then  the  upward  sweep  to  the  crest  of  the  woods, 
the  crackle  of  twigs  under  the  wheels,  the  slap  of 
leaves  against  the  painted  side,  as  the  car  swerved 
to  this  edge  of  the  road  or  to  that  in  its  avoidance 
of  ruts  or  patches  of  unrolled  flint.  We  topped 
the  ridge  and  slid  silently  through  gray  beech 
trunks  towards  the  Abbey.  The  sun  diapered  the 
leaf  strewn  ground;  in  the  clearings  bracken 
thrust  upward  between  ancient  thorns  and  lazy 
flies  droned  in  the  heavy  air.  At  last  the  traceried 
cloister  was  dancing  by  my  side ;  and  the  buttresses 
of  the  keep  were  twitching  their  moldings  from 
my  path.  As  the  car  stopped  under  the  fan-vault- 
ing of  the  porch,  the  joy  of  being  home  again  al- 
most became  anguish.  And  suddenly  I  thought  to 
wonder  why  I  had  come  and  what  it  was  all  about. 

Harold  himself  met  me  at  the  door.  He  shook 
hands  without  a  word  and  we  crossed  the  octagon 
hall  and  the  large  drawing-room  to  the  new  terrace 
that  overlooked  the  sunny  spaces  of  the  arena. 
Tea  was  ready  with  its  silver  and  fine  white  scones 
and  a  great  bowl  of  raspberries.  We  helped  our- 
selves and  then: 

"  Dick,"  Harold  began,  "  I've  been  a  bloody  ass. 
It's  over  now,  I  hope,  and  I  want  some  help  to 
pull  the  place  together." 


108  Privilege 

There  seemed  nothing  to  say  and  I  went  on 
with  my  tea. 

"I'm  glad  Michael  is  away,"  he  went  on. 
"He'd  rub  it  in  and  I  am  not  a  penitent  exactly. 
But  when  Anthony  arrived  and  I  saw  what  a 
smeared  innocent  he  is,  I  made  up  my  mind.  I'd 
had  my  fling  and  I  was  already  tired  of  it.  The 
kid's  appearance  decided  me.  Touching,  isn't  it, 
and  all  that?  You'll  be  uncomfortable  because 
there  are  only  six  servants  in  the  place.  I've 
sacked  the  rest  and  want  you  to  get  new  ones  for 
me.  Also  we  had  a  row  with  Mallowes.  Told 
me  I'd  killed  his  father  and  they  were  not  out  to 
run  an  estate  for  the  benefit  of  the  likes  of  me! 
Pretty  good,  what?  So  there's  been  no  agent  this 
three  months  and  the  rents  are  all  to  pot.  I 
don't  know  who's  living  in  what  cottage  or  any 
damn  thing  about  the  property." 

"But,  Harold,"  I  interrupted,  "I  can't  stay 
indefinitely." 

"Rubbish!    Why  not?" 

I  could  hardly  tell  him  of  the  hack  work  I  had 
undertaken  to  earn  a  few  pounds,  so  I  replied 
vaguely  that  I  had  "lots  of  things  to  do."  He 
brushed  me  aside. 

"Nothing  so  important  as  is  needed  here.    By 


The  Passing  of  Harold         109 

the  way,  in  case  there  are  any  bills  or  things,  I  am 
paying  your  arrears  of  allowance  into  the  bank 
to-day.  Tell  me  if  you  want  more.  And  now  I 
want  to  hear  about  my  sister-in-law.  I  should 
have  come  to  town,  only  somehow — well,  I  wasn't 
quite  up  to  facing  the  club.  Is  she  as  fine  a  woman 
as  her  photographs  make  her?  Fancy  Michael 
going  in  for  romance!" 

He  talked  on,  partly  to  keep  his  composure, 
partly,  I  suspect,  to  prevent  my  thanks  for  or 
refusal  of  his  financial  peace  offering.  I  was  senti- 
mentally embarrassed  by  his  determined  indiffer- 
ence of  manner,  and  by  the  resentful  shame  which 
lay  behind  it.  By  nature  conciliatory,  I  was  won 
over  instantly  by  his  awkward  recantation  and 
wished  to  express  in  some  way  that  the  past  was 
forgotten.  But  the  words  would  not  come  and 
we  sought  common  refuge  in  the  abrupt  flippancy 
that  is  English  for  emotional  frankness. 

"Where's  the  kid?"  I  asked  after  a  time. 

"I  sent  him  off  with  the  two-seater  to  try  Whern 
bank.  He  won't  be  in  till  dinner.  He's  improving 
already.  1  mean  to  keep  him  here — out  of  mis- 
chief. He's  scared  of  me  and  I  drill-sergeant  him — 
no  use  trying  sweet  reasonableness  on  that  kind 
of  disease." 


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I  had  spent  a  hard  morning  over  the  estate 
accounts.  The  confusion  was  certainly  terrible. 
Rent-roll,  farm  management,  repairs  account, 
stock  renewals — all  were  mere  ragged  ends.  Even 
the  finances  of  the  Abbey  itself  had  been  let  slide. 
There  were  no  household  wage  lists,  no  tradesmen's 
receipts.  In  the  housekeeper's  room  I  found  a 
pile  of  bills,  another  in  the  butler's  pantry. 
Harold's  check  foils  told  me  nothing.  "Self" 
"Rogers";  "M.  H.";  Rogers";  "Self";  "Rogers" 
"Self";  "V.";  "D.  R.";  "Rogers";  "Rogers" 
"Rogers."  It  was  evident  that  I  must  cut  the 
chaos  of  the  last  six  months  and  work  on. averages 
from  the  latest  remaining  soundness.  For  four 
days  I  had  toiled  at  thus  clearing  the  ground. 
The  Mallowes  family  had  been  agents  for  a  cen- 
tury, from  father  to  son.  The  old  man,  who 
had  seen  Black  Whern  into  his  grave,  had  died  of 
grief  at  the  shame  of  Harold's  governance.  The 
son,  as  I  had  been  told,  had  spoken  out  to  his 
employer's  face  and  thrown  up  the  job.  I  decided 
to  appoint  no  absolute  successor.  Things  had 
gone  too  far  to  admit  of  another  gentleman-agent 
yet  awhile.     We  must  clean  our  own  Augean 


The  Passing  of  Harold         in 

stables.  I  would  have  a  confidential  clerk  as  my 
assistant — nothing  more  formidable.  An  adver- 
tisement in  the  local  paper  for  such  a  clerk,  for 
a  farm  bailiff,  and  for  a  housekeeper  had  produced 
one  likely  candidate  for  the  first  vacancy  and  no 
replies  at  all  for  the  other  two.  ' '  Shows  what  the 
righteous  think  of  the  place,"  commented  Harold, 
bitterly.  He  was  getting  daily  more  morose  and 
lost  no  opportunity  of  self-abasement  and  re- 
proach. Anthony  joined  nobly  in  my  efforts  to 
keep  away  the  shadow  of  vain  regret.  The  boy 
was  becoming  a  different  person.  His  skin  was 
clearer,  his  eyes  at  once  more  vivid  and  more 
tranquil.  He  was  still  freakish  in  humor  and  lan- 
guidly ornate  in  speech,  but  the  rainbow  glitter  that 
in  London  had  filmed  his  transparency  was  fading 
fast.  I  understood  that  Harold  had  dealt  somewhat 
brutally  with  the  lad  and,  although  I  disliked  the 
method  and  could  not  myself  have  applied  it,  I  was 
bound  to  admit  it  had  the  appearance  of  success. 

On  the  fifth  day  after  my  arrival  we  met  at 
lunch.  "You  look  stewed,  Dick,"  said  Harold. 
1 '  How  is  the  stock-taking  going  ? ' ' 

"Stiff  work,"  I  replied,  "and  I  feel  upside  down. 
I'm  going  to  see  a  possible  sub-agent  in  Rodbury. 
Can  I  have  the  small  car?" 


ii2  Privilege 


<<j 


'Of  course.  We  might  take  a  gun  and  potter 
about  the  woods,  Anthony?" 

By  three  o'clock  I  was  on  my  way  to  Rodbury, 
the  great  railway  junction  and  our  nearest  im- 
portant town.  It  was  a  drive  of  fifteen  miles,  the 
last  three  of  which,  thanks  to  drays,  tramlines, 
and  erratic  babies,  were  slow  going.  I  saw  my 
man,  did  some  odd  shopping,  and  set  out  for  home 
about  half-past  five.  To  my  surprise  the  park 
gates  were  shut  and  raucous  horn-business  was 
necessary  to  attract  attention.  A  woman  hurried 
from  the  lodge  and  fumbled  with  the  heavy  grille. 
She  begged  my  pardon  for  the  delay  but  her 
husband  was  away  up  at  the  Abbey.  There  had 
been  an  accident.  His  lordship  was  hurt.  With  a 
queer  uneasiness  I  gave  the  car  her  head.  The 
trees  fluttered  by  and  every  now  and  then  a  low- 
hanging  bough,  freed  from  the  thrust  of  the 
wind-screen,  lashed  back  angrily  at  my  face.  An 
accident  ?  What  sort  of  an  accident  was  it,  that 
drew  the  lodge-keepers  from  their  placid  duties  ? 

The  stable  yard  was  empty.  I  left  the  car 
standing  and  hurried  towards  the  terrace.  An- 
thony must  have  been  watching  for  me,  for  he 
ran  across  the  lawn  as  soon  as  I  turned  the  corner. 
"Thank  God,  you've  come!"    His  manner,  for  all 


The  Passing  of  Harold         113 

the  emphatic  words,  was  listless,  and  his  voice 
lacked  body.     Immediately  he  spoke  again. 

"You've  heard?" 

How  strained  he  looked  and  yet  how  eerie  was 
the  indifference  of  his  tone ! 

"Nothing.    What  has  happened?" 

"Harold's  been  shot!" 

"Good  God!  How?  What  do  you  mean — 
shot?" 

"I  don't  know  who  did  it,  although  I  was  within 
fifty  yards.    He's  bad,  damned  bad." 

"Doctor  with  him?" 

Anthony  nodded  and  stood  looking  away  across 
the  lawn.    His  hands  worked  nervously. 

"Fifty  yards,"  he  muttered.  "Might  as  well 
have  been  fifty  miles.    That  blasted  cliff!" 

I  took  his  arm  and  moved  towards  the  terrace. 
There  was  whisky  on  one  of  the  tables  and  I  mixed 
two  stiff  glasses  for  him  and  for  myself.  Then  I 
sat  down. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  asked  quietly. 
For  the  first  of  how  many  times,  I  wonder,  that 
I  shall  do  so  ? "  He  spoke  bitterly  and  his  elegance, 
ordinarily  so  self-possessed,  quivered  with  nervous 
agitation.  "We  went  out  after  rabbits,  as  you 
know,  and  tried  first  the  sandpits.     They  were 


ii4  Privilege 

swarming  and  we  hung  about  a  while  having  quite 
decent  fun.  Harold  had  a  couple  of  ferrets  with 
him  (he  wouldn't  take  a  keeper),  but  we  hardly 
used  them.  Then  he  said  there  were  a  lot  near 
Otranto,  and  we  cut  diagonally  along  the  woods 
in  that  direction.  We  crossed  the  grass  drive 
high  up  and  were  not  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
road,  which,  as  you  know,  bends  inward  at  that 
point.  I  saw  someone  leaning  on  the  gate.  Hardly 
know  why  I  tell  you,  because  it  made  no  impression 
at  the  time  and  was  perfectly  natural.  It  merely 
struck  me  afterwards  that  during  the  afternoon  I 
saw  no  other  soul." 
"Saw?"  I  queried. 

He  nodded  impatiently  and  hurried  on: 
"Well,  we  crossed  the  drive  and  made  our  way 
through  the  thick  undergrowth  that  tops  the 
marshy  land  above  the  fishponds.  It  was  so  thick 
and  the  flies  such  a  damned  nuisance  that  I  left 
Harold  and  dropped  to  a  lower  level,  getting  into 
clearer  ground  beyond  the  worst  of  the  bog.  You 
remember  that  the  ridge  which  becomes  the  cliff 
on  which  Otranto  stands  rises  steeply  from  the 
very  thicket  I  had  left  and  I  reckoned  I  should 
reach  the  foot  of  the  cliff  as  soon  as  Harold,  even 
with  the  detour  I  was  making. 


The  Passing  of  Harold         115 

1  { And  so  I  should  have  done ! "  he  cried  with  sudden 
excitement,  "if  I  hadn't  stopped  for  that  infernal 
cigarette!  The  flies  were  still  troublesome  and  I 
sat  on  a  stump  with  a  jolly  view  of  the  house  and 
smoked  one  small  cigarette.  Not  more  than  two 
minutes  at  the  outside.  I  heard  Harold  forcing 
his  way  through  the  thicket  above  and  threw  the 
cigarette  away  when  he  seemed  to  have  got 
farther  ahead  than  I  had  counted  on.  You  know 
the  fir  plantation  below  the  cliff  foot?  And  how 
dark  it  is?  Well,  I  had  just  plunged  into  the 
dusky  gloom  of  the  trees,  when  I  heard  a  shot. 
Nothing  remarkable  in  that  but  then  there  was  a 
strange  sound  like  a  heavy  stumble,  another  shot, 
a  noise  of  splintering  stone,  and  a  crashing  fall.  I 
raced  through  the  firs  and  there  was  Harold  full 
length  on  the  ground  and  clutching  his  side  with 
both  hands.  He  was  white  as  chalk  and,  as  I  bent 
over  him,  said:  'Up  there — in  the  castle.  .  .  . 
Hope  I  winged  him.'    Then  he  fainted  away. 

"Maybe  I  ought  to  have  stayed  by  him.  But 
I  wanted  to  smash  someone.  I  sprinted  for  that 
cliff  and  began  scrambling.  The  rock  is  mere 
shale  and  everything  I  seized  came  away  in  my 
hand.  Now  you  will  understand  why  I  said  'saw' 
just  now.    While  I  was  hanging  on  to  nothing  in 


1 16  Privilege 

particular  and  feeling  about  for  a  fresh  hold,  I 
distinctly  heard  feet  crossing  the  floor  of  the  upper 
room  in  Otranto — the  room  that  gives  onto  the 
cliff  top  at  the  other  side.  I  got  up  the  bloody 
cliff  at  last,  swung  myself  into  the  lower  room  and 
up  the  stairs.  No  one.  But  footmarks  across  the 
sand  and  litter  of  the  floor,  and  clear  marks  on  the 
ground  outside  the  window  of  someone  having 
passed.  I  rushed  into  the  wood  beyond  and 
listened  and  looked  but  there  was  no  sound  nor 
sign.  The  footprints  were  lost  in  the  grass  and 
leaves  and  I  had  no  idea  in  which  direction  to  look 
further.  So  I  scrambled  down  again,  did  what  I 
could  to  stop  the  blood  from  Harold's  wound,  and 
thought  best  to  fetch  help.  Fortunately  I  soon 
met  an  underkeeper  and  dispatched  him  to  the 
house  with  orders  that  all  gates  should  be  shut  and 
all  the  men  assembled  at  the  Abbey  to  start  a 
search  of  the  woods  and  neighborhood.  The  police 
were  also  to  be  advised.  We  got  the  poor  chap 
back,  telephoned  for  a  nurse  and  a  doctor,  and 
— well,  that's  all!  The  nurse  was  here  very 
quickly.  The  doctor  came  a  short  while  before 
you  did." 

We  turned  at  a  step.    It  was  the  doctor  himself. 
He  shook  hands  with  me  and  stood  unhappily 


The  Passing  of  Harold         117 

fidgeting  with  the  wicker  top  of  the  small  table 
at  his  side. 

"I'm  afraid,  gentlemen, — "  he  began.  "You 
see,  he  lost  so  much  blood " 

"Is  he  dead?"  I  asked  abruptly. 

"Not  yet.  But  he  is  insensible  and  very  weak. 
If  I  might  suggest,  any  relations  should  be  sum- 
moned ..." 

"Please  give  your  orders,"  I  said.  "I  will  send 
the  necessary  messages  to — to  the  necessary  peo- 
ple. Ask  for  anything  you  want.  Is  it  too  late  to 
operate?" 

"Steed  of  Rodbury  is  a  good  man,  but,  even  if 
you  catch  him,  he  could  hardly  be  here  for  an 
hour." 

"Nevermind.  We  will  telephone.  Will  you  do 
that,  please,  Anthony?  I  will  wire  to  Michael  and 
arrange  immediate  matters  with  the  servants." 

The  doctor  turned  back  into  the  house  and  we 
followed,  intent  on  the  duties  of  the  moment. 
Just  inside  the  door  Anthony  touched  my  arm. 

"You  see!"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "Loss  of 
blood.     If  I  had  only  stayed!    That— cliff!" 

And  he  clenched  his  hands  nervously  and  hurried 
past  me  towards  the  telephone. 

I  have  not  the  temperament  that  meets  disaster 


n8  Privilege 

with  chastened  dignity.  Horrors  frighten  me,  but 
I  remember  the  struggle  I  had  with  the  conven- 
tional impulse  to  go  and  see  the  dying  man.  Ulti- 
mately realism  won.  Harold  was  insensible;  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done  that  others,  better  qualified 
than  I,  were  not  already  doing;  I  should  only  be 
in  the  way.  Also  the  paraphernalia  of  a  sick  room 
revolted  me,  the  hushed  voices,  the  hasty  erection 
of  a  facade  of  grief.  I  was  too  deeply  shocked  by 
the  catastrophe  to  allow  my  fancy  any  play. 
Prompt  action  was  the  only  anodyne.  Once  again 
I  set  out  in  the  two-seater.  From  Whern  Royal 
I  wired  an  urgent  summons  to  Michael.  The  post- 
mistress was  all  curiosity  and  agitation.  A  shoot- 
ing accident,  I  told  her,  and  Lord  Whern  badly 
hurt.  Between  Whern  Royal  and  Laylham  I  met 
the  inspector.  He  was  on  his  way  to  the  Abbey 
to  conduct  a  formal  questionnaire.  I  took  him 
into  the  car  and  we  raced  home,  his  dog  cart 
following  as  best  it  might.  When  we  reached  the 
house  we  were  informed  that  Harold  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PRIVILEGE 


It  is,  I  daresay,  a  common  characteristic  of  the 
modern  intellectual  that  he  should  sympathize 
with  failure  more  readily  than  he  admires  success. 
At  any  rate,  I  know  that  my  own  desultory  reading 
of  history  has  centered  for  preference  round  for- 
lorn causes  and  their  leaders.  I  have  always  felt 
the  immense  poignancy  of  the  passing  of  a  great 
family,  of  the  horrible  slide  into  chaos  (for  the 
crude  beginnings  of  a  new  era  are  inevitably 
chaotic)  of  some  age  that  had  brought  graciousness 
and  beauty  to  the  world.  And  particularly  have 
I  cherished,  like  a  guilty  secret,  romantic  admira- 
tion for  those  men  or  periods  who  have  struggled 
vainly  and  at  the  last  moment  to  save  a  dying 
past.  In  all  revolutions  there  is  an  eleventh  hour 
before  the  end,  when  all  the  forces  for  good  that 
still  animate  the  old  order  gather  for  one  supreme 

119 


120  Privilege 

and  desperate  effort.  For  every  dynasty  that  has 
come  to  supremacy,  ruled  in  glory,  decayed  and 
vanished,  there  has  been  a  Saint  Martin's  summer, 
that  has  fended  off  with  its  wan  and  spurious  sun- 
shine the  coming  of  the  final  darkness.  And  just 
because  of  their  eternal  failure,  just  because  of  the 
gallantry  with  which  they  fight  their  hopeless  fight 
and,  by  their  efforts,  harden  to  hatred  the  contempt 
or  indifference  of  their  raw  but  victorious  enemies, 
these  individuals  and  shreds  of  an  outworn  society 
move  me  to  a  passionate  sympathy.  That  they 
died  to  perpetuate  tyranny  and  corruption,  that 
they  died  to  obstruct  liberty  and  progress  are,  in 
my  emotional  view,  pedantic  trifles.  They  had 
fineness  and  they  had  gesture  and  their  brave 
flicker  in  the  very  jaws  of  destiny  is  the  badge  of 
their  superb  and  foolish  courage. 

But  the  picturesque  imagination  is  focussed  for 
distance.  The  near  foreground  becomes  prosaic, 
just  because  it  is  actual  and  familiar.  Also,  I  sup- 
pose, the  evils  of  our  own  time  appeal  directly  to 
that  same  indignation  that  is  ideally  roused  by  the 
trappings  of  historical  narrative.  In  other  words, 
the  sympathy  in  theory  to  a  forlorn  hope  is  already 
pledged  in  fact  to  the  few  desperate  reformers. 
So  it  came  about  that  I  did  not  realize  until  after- 


Privilege  I21 

wards  that,  in  a  small  way,  I  myself  played  a  part 
in  the  melancholy  drama  of  an  eleventh  hour 
revival,  and  that,  in  miniature,  the  passing  of 
Whern  was  the  passing  of  a  dynasty,  and  so,  twice 
removed,  the  passing  of  an  age.  Even  if  I  had  so 
realized,  I  believe  my  humanity  would  have  tricked 
me  of  posturing,  for  I  was  of  the  new  in  ideas  while 
hating  its  prophets,  and  of  the  old  in  manners 
while  sorrowing  for  its  selfishness. 

Looking  back,  however,  on  the  few  years  that 
form  the  period  of  this  story,  I  can  now  see  events 
only  through  the  romantic  haze  of  my  partialities 
and  am  tempted  to  periodize  and  to  establish  the 
logic  of  their  sequence.  Black  Whern  outstayed 
his  time.  By  the  harsh  violence  of  his  nature  and 
by  the  seclusion  to  which  it  bound  him,  he  kept 
alive  beyond  the  turbulent  dawn  of  a  new  and 
menacing  century  a  conception  of  life  and  society 
that  belonged  to  the  complacent  egoism  of  Victori- 
an peace.  His  death  left  vacant  a  throne  of  a  type 
long  out  of  date  and,  simultaneously,  rilled  it  with 
one  untrained  in  the  old  school  of  dignified  benevo- 
lence and  ignorant  of  the  transition  doctrine  of 
unassuming  comradeship.  Harold  had  a  hopeless 
task  and,  even  if  he  had  realized  his  problems  as 
problems  there  was  nothing,  with  his  inherited 


122  Privilege 

tendencies,  that  he  could  have  done  to  solve  them. 
He  was  born  at  the  end  of  one  epoch  and  invested 
with  too  much  power  at  the  beginning  of  another. 
Without  education  in  anything  but  self-indulgence, 
he  faced  an  existence  of  a  complexity  undreamed 
of  by  the  generation  that  preceded  him.  Excep- 
tional character  might  have  triumphed  over  these 
initial  disadvantages.  But  Harold,  being  what  he 
was,  lived  his  riotous  decadence  and  paid  the  last 
penalty  for  faults  not  all  his  own.  True  to  prece- 
dent, he  passed  from  the  scene  before  the  real 
crisis  of  the  play,  for  the  violence  of  his  death  was, 
so  to  speak,  gratuitous  and  not  an  item  on  the 
program.  Had  Michael  been  the  eldest  son,  Whern 
and  the  privilege  of  Braden  might  have  survived. 
As  it  was,  and  despite  the  disastrous  interlude  of 
his  brother's  supremacy,  Michael  chose  to  fight 
for  the  restoration  of  caste.  To  me  now  this  fight, 
with  its  ultimate  inevitable  uselessness,  seems 
moving  and  gallant.  But,  at  the  time,  my  alle- 
giance was  divided  (there  was  a  cause  of  my  own 
for  which  to  fight)  and  I  would  seek  to  excuse 
this  too  elaborate  digression  as  small  and  tardy 
amends  to  the  brother  I  could  only  half-heartedly 
support.  If  I  sank  below  half-heartedness  and 
was  guilty  of  actual  treachery,  there  can  be  no 


Privilege  123 

amends.  But  this  at  least  I  struggled  to  avoid. 
How  Michael,  with  his  dry  and  fanatical  devotion 
to  an  idea,  would  despise  my  romanticism !  'You 
have  no  convictions  except  aesthetic  ones,"  he 
once  said  to  me.  "Taste  and  kindliness  make 
good  room  fellows,  but  bad  soldiers  and  worse 
generals."  I  comfort  myself  by  thinking  that 
gods  are  not  consulted  as  to  the  nature  of  sacri- 
ficial offerings.  Let  these  pages  of  absurd  con- 
fession be  a  votive  gift  to  the  memory  of  a  very 
honorable  man  and  to  a  brother  more  loyal  than 
was  he  who  writes  them. 


II 


With  Michael's  accession  the  rehabilitation  of 
Whern  began  in  earnest.  It  was  due  mainly  to  his 
own  faultless  instinct  for  gesture  that  the  process 
was  so  rapid  and  that  for  Braden  a  second  golden 
age  seemed  to  have  dawned. 

I  have  used  the  word  "accession"  more  by  in- 
stinct than  of  design,  because  no  other  can  ade- 
quately express  the  pomp  and  dignity  with  which 
Michael  came  into  his  inheritance.  He — and  his 
wife  with  him — hurried  to  Whern  in  response  to 
my  telegram,  but  he  chose  to  regard  that  visit  as 


124  Privilege 

having  been  made  incognito  and  to  reserve  for  a 
later  occasion  the  more  ceremonious  welcome  that 
he  considered  to  be  due.  Naturally  the  period  of 
mourning  required  immediate  delimitation.  Mi- 
chael's first  instruction  was  a  full  twelvemonth. 
I  greeted  the  proposal  with  dubious  silence  and 
he  took  me  up  sharply. 

"A  Whern  is  dead.    That  is  all  that  matters." 

Barbara  ventured  an  interruption. 

' '  There  is  a  heap  to  do,  Michael,  dear.  Oughtn't 
you  to  be  free  to  get  to  work  a  little  sooner  than 
that?  Entertaining,  you  know —  Besides  you 
don't  want  to  underline  the  last  six  months,  do 
you?" 

He  gazed  at  her  thoughtfully.  I  knew  that  his 
level,  scrupulous  mind  was  weighing  her  argument 
against  his  own  ritualistic  instinct.  Then  he 
smiled  with  affectionate  approval. 

"Yes.  I  think  you  are  right.  A  year  is  too 
long.  We  will  say  six  months  full  mourning  and 
decide  later  on  what  shall  follow.  And  now  I 
want  to  out-Barbara  Barbara,  because  I  feel  it 
essential  there  should  be  some  gathering  of  the 
tenants.  They  must  get  to  know  us  and  to  under- 
stand that  the  Abbey  is  once  more  in  working 
order.      Will    you    make    arrangements,    Dick? 


Privilege  125 

Nothing  magnificent;  the  only  vital  thing  is  that 
no  one  should  be  omitted." 

"If  you  will  fix  the  date  of  your  official  arrival," 
I  said,  "I  will  do  the  rest." 

And  so  it  came  to  pass.  On  a  certain  day  Lord 
and  Lady  Whern  came  into  subdued  but  ceremo- 
nial residence.  It  was  announced  that  the  day 
following  the  arrival,  there  would  be  a  luncheon 
to  the  Abbey  tenants  and  that  park  and  gardens 
would  be  open  to  all  and  sundry.  The  countryside 
were  delighted.  Michael  had  demonstrated,  thus 
at  the  very  outset  of  his  reign,  that  he  had  a  true 
sense  of  what  was  required.  From  the  moment 
that  his  train  stopped  at  the  platform  he  was 
hailed  as  symbolic  of  the  good  times  everyone  felt 
sure  were  coming. 

The  tenants  turned  out  in  force  and  the  journey 
from  Laylham  to  the  Abbey  was  something  of  a 
triumph.  Barbara  played  her  part  to  perfection, 
and  many  were  the  cheers  that  greeted  in  her  at 
once  the  long-looked-for  mistress  of  Whern  and  a 
very  lovely  lady.  Michael's  genius  for  benevolent 
landlordism  was  even  more  clearly  shown  at  the 
fete  and  luncheon  on  the  following  day.  He  made 
a  speech,  and,  afterwards,  as  he  moved  about 
among  the  guests  with  simple  words  of  greeting, 


126  Privilege 

I  marveled  at  his  skilful  blending  of  friendliness 
and  condescension.  Indeed  he  required  no  ap- 
prenticeship. Feudal  lordship  was  in  his  very 
bones. 

As  September  drew  on,  Barbara  began  to  chafe 
a  little  against  the  restraint  of  family  mourning. 

"We  might  have  such  jolly  parties,"  she  said  to 
me  one  morning  as  we  strolled  down  the  long  walk 
of  the  kitchen  garden  and  appraised  the  trellised 
fruit  trees,  the  lines  of  late  peas  and  runner  beans, 
the  winter  treasure  of  flamboyant  cabbage  and 
developing  cauliflower. 

4 '  Poor  dear ! ' '  I  said.    '  'Are  you  bored  already  ? ' ' 

She  laughed. 

"Bored!  I'm  working  harder  than  ever  in  my 
life.  Bulbs  and  planting  out  and  all  sorts.  No, 
Dick,  it's  not  boredom.  Only  I  should  like  to  see 
the  place  full  of  people  and  have  dances  and  so  on." 

"It  can't  be  done  this  autumn.  Michael  will 
never  allow  it.  But  we  might  manage  a  few 
neighbors  and  we  can  always  illuminate  the  garden 
and  play  waltzes." 

She  clapped  her  hands  and  began  extravagant 
schemes  for  a  satisfactory  simulation  of  social 
merriment. 

Michael  consented  to  the  inviting  of  a  small 


Privilege  127 

party  at  short  notice,  in  order  perhaps  to  profit 
from  the  unusual  beauty  of  the  weather.  Also  he 
was  very  anxious  to  establish  prompt  and  proper 
relations  with  selected  houses  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Abbey  and  was  himself  too  fond  of  sport  not 
to  stifle  reluctance  to  a  slight  breach  of  the  strict 
seclusion  that  he  felt  to  be  technically  correct. 
Having  gained  this,  her  initial  point,  Barbara 
found  it  easy  to  arrange  a  so-called  impromptu 
dance  and  to  prevent  her  husband  from  investi- 
gating too  closely  the  rapidity  with  which  musi- 
cians were  provided. 

Perfect  weather  allowed  the  garden  illuminations 
I  had,  somewhat  regrettably,  proposed,  and  a 
poet's  moon  hung  over  the  arena  of  woods  and 
lawns,  watching  like  a  gentle  eye  the  return  of 
merriment  to  Whern.  Dancing  was,  of  course,  not 
for  me  and  I  slipped  away  about  midnight  to 
smoke  a  pipe  on  the  stone  seat  of  the  upper  garden 
which,  at  the  side  of  the  Abbey  and  facing  south, 
ran  some  little  way  up  the  hill.  From  the  house 
came  a  faint  sigh  of  music,  so  muted  as  to  have 
lost  all  but  the  sensuous  throb  that  is  the  very 
soul  of  waltz-time.  The  trees,  under  the  moon- 
light, were  flattened  into  the  sky  and  their  leaves, 
cut  into  jagged  planes  by  black  shadow-gulfs, 


128  Privilege 

were  so  rigid  that  one  could  imagine  them  smeared 
to  stiffness  with  quiet,  bronze  paint,  or,  like  the 
grass,  heavy  with  elfin  snow.  The  Gothic  fan- 
tasies of  the  Abbey  pile  were,  in  this  magic  light, 
fretted  miracles.  The  central  tower  soared  gleam- 
ing to  the  velvet  sky;  against  the  interior  light 
the  tracery  of  the  windows  climbed  to  intricate 
harmony. 

To  my  surprise  I  saw  Barbara  mounting  the 
garden  steps.  "Give  me  a  cigarette,"  she  said 
and  seated  herself  beside  me. 

We  smoked  in  silence,  then : 

"This  is  your  triumph,  Dick,"  she  said,  "not 


ours." 


I  looked  interrogation. 

' '  I  mean  that  we  are  here  like  this  and  all  happy 
again.  It  is  thanks  to  your  organizing  and  your 
energy.  I  have  looked  for  you  everywhere  to 
thank  you  for  a  masterpiece." 

"Please,  please  .  .  .  !  But  I  am  glad  you  are 
satisfied.  Anything  I  have  done  was  for  you — and 
Michael,  of  course." 

She  leaned  back  and  gave  a  little  cry  as  her  bare 
shoulders  touched  the  cold  stone. 

"You'll  catch  cold,"  I  said,  "running  about  with 
nothing  on." 


Privilege  129 

1 '  Really !   And  I'ma  parcel  compared  to  some ! ' ' 

"Let  me  get  you  a  wrap." 

"No,  no,  of  course  not.  Stay  where  you  are. 
I  want  to  ask  you  to  do  something  for  me — for  us. 
I  have  spoken  to  Michael  and  he  agrees  you  are 
indispensable.  Come  and  live  here.  Chuck  your 
old  Museum  and  come  and  look  after  us.  We've 
kept  you  three  months  and  nobody  has  complained. 
Or  would  you  die  of  boredom?" 

"Madame  commands,"  I  said.  "Besides,  how 
lovely  it  is!" 

And,  indeed,  at  that  moment  I  should  have 
agreed  to  anything,  so  beautiful  was  she  and  the 
night  and  the  peace  in  my  heart.  She  sat  with  her 
head  tilted  slightly  upwards,  the  brooding  majesty 
of  her  face  paled  to  an  ethereal  calm  under  the 
thoughtful  moon.  The  hair  swept  low  over  one 
temple  was  dark  as  a  banked  fire  that  smoulders 
at  its  core.  Her  straight  nose  and  the  sullen 
fullness  of  her  mouth  were  more  than  ever  Bar- 
bara. And  I  sat  up  with  a  start,  for  I  remembered, 
unaccountably,  that  this  was  Michael's  wife. 

"Ought  we  to  go  down?" 

She  looked  at  me  gravely  but  I  thought  her  eyes 
smiled.     "Perhaps  we  ought." 

"Look,"  I  said,  "how  foolish  the  Chinese  lan- 
9 


i3°  Privilege 

terns  seem.  I  wish  we  had  left  them  out.  They 
are  too  hot  and  quarrelsome." 

"And  the  only  darkness  is  just  outside  their 
radius." 

We  sat  and  brooded  on  our  own  fatuity. 

"Ought  we  to  go  down?"  she  asked,  throwing 
away  her  cigarette. 

"Perhaps  we  ought,"  I  replied  solemnly,  and 
followed  her  with  a  delectable  breathlessness 
towards  the  house. 

In  this  manner,  then,  did  it  come  about  that 
Whern  became  once  more  my  home. 


in 


My  chronology  is  at  fault.  In  haste  to  relieve 
those  muted  but  glorious  beginnings  of  the  new 
Whern,  I  have  omitted  all  the  tortuous  embarrass- 
ment that  accompanied  the  hunt  for  Harold's 
murderer.  It  was  an  unsuccessful  hunt,  as 
Michael  intended  that  it  should  be.  Up  to  a  point 
he  dissimulated  cleverly  and  his  evasions  were 
taken  for  genuine,  if  uninformed,  attempts  to  help. 
But  as  the  days  passed  I  could  see  bewilderment 
in  the  eyes  of  the  police.  The  situation  became  a 
little  strained.     Then  a  development  was  tele- 


Privilege  131 

graphed.  A  man  was  arrested  in  a  common 
lodging-house  in  Portsmouth.  He  was  sullen  and 
would  give  no  personal  particulars.  A  local  police- 
man from  Whern  Royal  averred  that  the  prisoner's 
face  was  familiar.  Possibilities  were  narrowed 
down  and  he  was  provisionally  identified  with 
a  certain  Joe  Wharrock,  the  sailor  son  of  old 
Whern  tenants.  The  inspector  reported  with 
complacency.  At  the  trial  everything  would  be 
established. 

"Trial  for  what?"  asked  Michael. 

The  inspector  stared. 

"I  ask,"  went  on  Michael,  "because  I  see  no 
evidence.  Your  case  will  break  down.  Vague 
identification  by  a  village  constable  will  hardly 
form  a  basis  for  a  murder  charge." 

'Well,  my  lord,  I  feel  satisfied  myself  that  this 
is  the  fellow.  But  enquiries  will  be  prosecuted  in 
the  village.  To  begin  with,  your  lordship's  agent 
can  give  information  regarding  this  Wharrock  and 
his  parents." 

Michael  smiled  his  fatigued  but  tidy  smile. 

"I  have  no  agent  yet,  Barnard.  Mr.  Braden 
here  is  the  only  authority  on  the  tenantry." 

"A  poor  one  at  that,"  I  added. 

Inspector  Barnard  glanced  with  puzzled  sus- 


132  Privilege 

picion  at  the  two  of  us.  He  could  not  understand 
this  unhelpful  attitude. 

"Surely  there's  someone  ..."  he  began 
with  emphasis.  But  he  checked  himself,  picked 
up  his  cap,  and  strode  to  the  door.  "Well,  my 
lord,  I'll  be  getting  along.  Let  you  know  any 
developments  to-morrow." 

For  some  minutes  after  he  had  left  neither  of  us 
spoke.  Michael  rocked  himself  gently  to  and  fro 
on  the  curb-fender,  his  shoulders  hunched  against 
the  mantelpiece,  his  empty  pipe  jerking  idly  from 
side  to  side  of  his  sarcastic  mouth. 

"Dick,"  he  said  at  last,  "what  about  these 
Wharrocks?" 

"As  it  happens,"  I  replied,  "I  saw  them  not 
long  before — er — before  all  this  business.  I  visited 
the  cottage  to  examine  for  repairs.  The  old  man 
is  an  amiable  weakling,  a  survival  of  the  Victorian 
feudalism,  too  sugary,  too  courteous.  The  old 
lady  was  defiant  and — not  exactly  rude  but — 
well,  terse  in  her  manner.    I  discovered  why." 

Michael  looked  at  me  with  lazy  intentness.  I 
continued : 

"Naturally  I  inquired  about  their  children  and 
tried  to  make  myself  agreeable.  The  son  was 
expected  home  from  a  voyage  but  there  was  no 


Privilege  133 

certainty  when.  The  daughter  had  been  in  service 
at  the  Abbey.  She  seems  to  be  in  Plymouth  now. " 
The  inflection  of  my  voice  gave  unconscious 
emphasis  to  the  last  words.  Michael  kept  his 
shrewd  inhuman  eyes  on  my  face.  He  jerked  his 
pipe  still  more  spasmodically  and  with  one  foot 
sketched  the  pattern  outline  of  the  rug.  Then  he 
nodded  reflectively. 

"I  wondered,"  he  said  simply. 

I  took  his  quickness  with  my  own. 

"The  connection  never  occurred  to  me,  Mi- 
chael," I  said.     "Of  course  ..." 

"And  now  you  understand  my  want  of  fervor 
in  pursuit?" 

"Understand, — yes.  But  I'm  not  sure  if  I 
agree." 

This  was  so  unimportant  that  my  brother  made 
no  acknowledgment  of  even  so  tentative  a  differ- 
ence of  view.  "It  is  just  possible,"  he  went  on, 
"that  Barnard  has  fluked  onto  the  right  man. 
Possible,  but  nothing  more.  I  think  I  shall  go 
over  to  Portsmouth.  Is  there  any  evidence  of  the 
staff  here  in  Harold's  day?" 

"None." 

Michael  nodded. 

"And  did  you  gather  that  this  girl  was — so  to 


134  Privilege 

speak — get-at-able  in  Plymouth?  I  mean — has 
she  an  address?" 

"Oh,  it's  not  a  visit  to  an  aunt,"  I  said.  "Noth- 
ing of  that  kind.  Plymouth  is  recognized  as — you 
understand?" 

"Perfectly.  The  business  can  be  managed. 
From  what  you  say  the  sympathies  of  the  mother 
(and  she  alone  counts)  are  with  the  son.  Therefore 
she  will,  if  necessary,  deny  that  he  was  ever  at 
home.  Even  if  an  identification  is  contrived, 
there  is  no  shadow  of  real  evidence  connecting 
young  Wharrock  with  the  crime.  On  the  whole, 
matters  have  turned  out  well." 

He  tilted  forward  to  the  perpendicular  and 
stepped  off  the  curb.    Then  with  a  yawn: 

"Damned  idiots  men  are!"  he  said.  "Ring  up 
Barnard  now  and  tell  him  I'll  be  in  Portsmouth 
to-morrow.  He  is  to  do  nothing  until  I  say  the 
word.    Nothing.     Make  that  clear." 

The  case  against  the  Portsmouth  vagrant  was 
prosecuted  for  a  while  by  police  enthusiasm.  But 
there  was  no  evidence  and  the  matter  was  discreetly 
allowed  to  drop.  Lord  Whern  visited  the  prisoner 
and  satisfied  himself  that  the  man  was  a  native  of 
Dorsetshire  and  had  been  shot  at  while  poaching, 
and  wounded.    The  suggested  identification  with 


Privilege  J35 

Joe  Wharrock  was  never  made  public,  because  it 
was  asserted  that  the  young  man  was  on  voyage 
and  had  not  been  in  England.  Shortly  afterwards 
the  Wharrocks  left  Whern  Royal  and  retired  to  a 
cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  Rodbury.  It  was 
understood  that  his  lordship  had  been  generous 
in  the  matter  of  pension,  for  Wharrock  was  an  old 
servant  of  the  Bradens,  having  been  woodcutter 
at  Whern  for  thirty  years  or  more. 

Thinking  the  matter  over  afterwards,  I  was  not 
surprised  at  Michael's  cool  disregard  of  common 
principles.  In  psychology  he  dated  from  the  time 
when  caste  was  above  law  and  when  social  duty 
was  coincident  with  self -advantage.  To  Barbara, 
however,  the  affair  was  a  shock,  because  her  hus- 
band was  really  a  stranger  to  her.  Perhaps  it  is 
for  the  reason  that  over  this  matter  the  first  break 
in  their  harmony  was  noticeable,  that  I  remember 
it  as  deserving  of  record.  And  yet,  oddly  enough, 
she  approached  the  question  from  still  another 
point  of  view. 

We  were  talking  some  days  before  the  police 
made  their  arrest. 

"It  should  not  be  difficult  to  get  the  fel- 
low," I  said.  "Wounded  men  are  not  common 
objects  nowadays."    I  was  conventional  at  bot- 


136  Privilege 

torn,  and  in  this,  as  in  most  else,  prone  to 
platitude. 

"Poor  man!"  said  Barbara. 

"Why  poor?" 

"I  hate  to  think  of  him  creeping  the  country- 
side, in  pain  and  fright." 

"After  all,  he  murdered  Harold." 

"  'm.  That's  true.  But  the  fact  of  his  killing 
Harold  .  .  .  we  do  not  know  his  reason.  And, 
in  any  case,  everyone  is  against  him." 

"Your  soft  heart  .  .  .  !"  I  smiled,  but 
through  my  complacency  struggled  contempt  for 
the  fat  playfulness  that  made  my  sentimentality 
selfish  where  hers  was  at  least  generous. 

She  studied  me  gravely. 

"You  are  afraid  of  pity,  Dick,  as  you  would  not 
be  afraid  of  danger." 

And  then  came  the  evening  of  Michael's  return 
from  Portsmouth.  After  dinner  we  pressed  him 
for  details. 

"Wrong  man,"  he  said  laconically. 

I  laughed. 

"Chuck  it,  Michael.  This  isn't  a  police-court. 
Tell  us  what  he  said." 

' '  He  was  uncomplimentary, ' '  replied  my  brother. 
"As  a  family  we  displease  him." 


Privilege  J37 

"No  wonder,"  said  Barbara,  who  was  now  as 
familiar  as  I  with  what  had  transpired. 

"I  did  not  allow  myself,"  went  on  Michael 
coldly,  ' '  to  approve  or  disapprove  of  his  opinions. 
They  are  unimportant.  But  I  made  it  clear  that 
I  proposed  to  take  no  action." 

His  wife  rose  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"You  darling!"  she  murmured,  hooding  his 
head  with  the  smooth  beauty  of  her  arm  and 
shoulder.     "It  was  splendid  of  you." 

Michael  glanced  at  her  amusedly. 

"Not  splendid,  child.  Perfectly  natural.  It 
wouldn't  do,  you  know.  I've  an  uphill  task  already 
and  to  start  with  such  a  scandal  ..." 

She  drew  back  quickly. 

"Wouldn't  do  ...  ?  Do  you  mean  .  .  .  ? 
Oh,  Michael,  you  are  not  trying  to  deny  that  you 
did  this  out  of  sympathy  ?  Are  you  also  so  scared 
of  emotion?" 

He  replied,  with  an  aggravating  sniff: 

"Sympathy?    The  man  is  nothing  to  me." 

"No— but  the  girl  ..." 

"Good  heavens,  Barbara,  you  talk  like  a  melo- 
drama. Girls  of  that  class  must  look  after  them- 
selves. She  asked  for  it,  I've  no  doubt.  Leave 
Harold  and  his  follies  alone.     The  poor  devil's 


138  Privilege 

dead.  We  are  concerned  with  the  present  and 
future.  I  cannot  have  more  scandal  and  I  will 
not  allow  this  place  to  be  the  center  of  a  sensational 
trial.     So " 

"So  you  have  lied  to  save  yourself!"  she  broke 
in  angrily.    "Oh,  I  am  ashamed!" 

His  glance  of  cold  surprise  checked  her  ab- 
ruptly. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  was  a  little 
raucous.  Thank  you  for  the  care  with  which  you 
protect  our  tranquillity." 

And  she  went  silently  from  the  room. 

Michael  let  no  trace  of  feeling  disturb  his  com- 
posure. He  passed  smoothly  to  another  subject 
of  conversation.  But  I  felt  uneasily  that  this  mis- 
understanding was  greater  than  had  yet  appeared 
and  I  wondered  for  the  first  time,  as  I  came  to 
wonder  more  often  and  with  growing  certainty, 
whether  the  tragedy  of  Harold  were  not  really  the 
more  serious  tragedy  of  Michael.  Dominion  had 
come  too  soon.  A  few  years  of  obscurity  and  Bar- 
bara would  have  softened  his  rigidity  by  the 
mere  assertion  of  her  wifehood.  As  things  were, 
she  was  only  his  consort,  which  might  not  have 
mattered  had  not  the  day  gone  by  when  consorts 
were  content  to  remain  so. 


Privilege  J39 

IV 

Amid  the  pallid  debris  of  the  dance  I  walked 
and  wondered.  It  was  only  nine  o'clock  and  no 
one  had  appeared.  Gardeners  were  tidying  up 
and  I  saw  a  barrow  half  full  of  fairy  lamps,  little 
husks  of  dingy  glass  that  had  last  night  winked 
roguishly  along  the  edges  of  the  lawn.  The  weather 
was  mild  and  bright,  but  my  eyes  felt  tired  and 
my  skin  dry  and  taut.  My  pipe  was  at  once 
tasteless  and  burning  and  I  cursed  the  too  many 
cigars  and  cigarettes  of  a  restless  evening  of  gayety. 
As  I  walked  I  wondered — wondered  why  Barbara 
had  suggested  my  staying  on  at  Whern,  whether 
it  were  wise  to  do  so,  whether  I  wanted  to  do  so — 
Of  course  I  wanted,  of  course  it  was  unwise.  But 
if  I  could  be  of  any  use,  to  consent  was  natural 
and  proper.  And  then  I  wondered  who  would  be 
the  first  person  to  put  in  an  appearance,  and,  in- 
consequently,  when  Michael  was  going  to  town. 

On  the  broad  top  of  the  balustrade  I  sat  and 
bit  my  pipestem  till  it  cracked.  The  pale  sunlight 
intensified  the  alternating  black  and  white  of  the 
ivy-covered  ruin  across  the  lake.  The  slope  of 
woods  was  a  background  of  glowing  reds,  yellows, 
and  browns.     Among  the  beeches,  oaks,  birches, 


140  Privilege 

and  elms  were  a  few  evergreens,  emphatic  charac- 
ters scrawled  in  black  across  gorgeous  eastern 
weave.  There  was  the  breathlessness  of  autumn 
in  the  quiet  air  and,  near  me  on  plant  and  masonry, 
innumerable  webs  stretched  like  jeweled  disks. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Agent!" 

My  heart  dipped  and  slid.  I  started  upright 
and  found  myself  smiling  into  her  eyes.  She  was 
pale,  and  the  droop  of  her  mouth  was  heavy  with 
fatigue. 

"You  look  tired,"  I  said. 

"I  am  tired,  Dick;  beastly  tired.  I  couldn't 
sleep  till  it  was  too  late." 

Callowness  never  dies,  and  my  impulse  was 
toward  the  conspiratorial  "Nor  could  I,"  but  self- 
ridicule,  often  called  self-control,  coughed  warn- 
ingly  in  my  mind's  ear.    Instead : 

" Michael  doesn't  go  to-day,  does  he?"  I  asked. 

"No— Monday." 

"For  how  long?" 

"I  suppose  he'll  be  down  Sundays,  but  I  don't 
think  for  longer  than  a  week-end  till  Christmas." 

"And  what  is  to  happen  then?" 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  discuss  with  you.  I 
have  a  letter  from  Monica.     She  must  be  great 


mn. 


Privilege  H1 

1 '  Fun  ? "  I  said .  ' '  Let  us  say  ' stimulus . '  Where 
is  she?    Has  she  ever  written  to  you  before?" 

She  handed  me  the  letter.  It  was  short  but 
intimate  in  its  vivid  flippancy.  Monica  hoped 
Michael  was  a  satisfactory  husband,  was  sure 
Barbara  would  be  the  making  of  him,  and  longed 
to  see  her  new  sister-in-law.  In  conclusion,  she 
announced  her  own  arrival  in  London  early  in 
December  with  her  fiance,  and  could  they  come  to 
Whern  for  Christmas  because  they  meant  to  be 
married  in  February,  and  she  wished  to  blush 
before  the  altar  with  the  sweet  confusion  of  an 
English  maiden  fresh  from  the  dear  old  home. 
Not  a  word  about  Harold.  In  a  postscript  a 
message  to  Michael  that  both  she  and  Putzi 
wanted  to  hunt,  and  would  he  please  do  the 
needful. 

"If  Monica  wants  to  come  for  Christmas  she'll 
come,"  I  said. 

"Excellent.  Can't  we  collect  the  family  and 
ask  them  each  to  invite  a  friend  or  two?  Would 
that  be  unseemly  entertainment?  Surely  not.  I 
want  you  all  to  feel  this  is  your  home,  and  that  I 
don't  matter." 

"You  make  all  the  difference,"  I  said. 

1 '  What  a  nasty  speech ! ' '    Her  retort  was  a  shade 


142  Privilege 

over-swift.  "And  when  I've  just  said  I  don't 
want  to  make  any!" 

I  side-stepped  to  subjects  of  general  interest. 

' '  There  remains  Mary  of  us.  We  needn't  bother 
about  other  relations,  but  the  twins  must  come. 
You  remember  their  ludicrous  mamma?  At  the 
wedding?    Like  a  perambulating  meringue?" 

"Tell  me  about  Mary.  Why  have  I  never  seen 
her?" 

"Why  have  not  I?  She  has  been  Cambridge 
bound  for  eight  or  nine  months.  She  has  hardly 
written  to  me ;  and  yet  we  were  very  good  friends. 
I  am  interested  to  see  what  has  become  of  her." 

"Then  I'll  tell  Michael  about  Monica,  and,  if 
he  agrees,  we'll  fix  up  the  party." 


Autumn  paled  to  winter  and  life  at  Whern 
became  for  me  a  thing  compounded  of  quiet  hap- 
piness, with  rare  flashes  of  excitement  or  twinges 
of  fear.  As  these  usually  coincided  with  my  brief 
periods  of  absence,  I  concluded  that  daily  contact 
with  Barbara  was  forming  from  our  intimacy  a 
solid  friendship,  at  once  estimable  and  pleasant; 
that  accordingly  I  had  done  right  to  stay  on  at  the 


Privilege  H3 

Abbey  and  that  the  more  continuously  I  was  there, 
the  more  right — and  the  more  upright — I  became. 
Also  there  was  genuinely  work  to  do.  Gradually 
matters  fell  into  order.  I  had  secured  a  good 
man  for  my  assistant  or  sub-agent,  and,  as  things 
had  fallen  out,  nothing  more  was  yet  necessary. 
Naturally  I  made  a  point  myself  of  establishing 
personal  relations  with  most  of  the  tenantry. 
Generally  once  a  fortnight  I  had  an  opportunity 
to  discuss  matters  thoroughly  with  Michael.  My 
chief  worry  was  an  area  of  cottage  property  in 
Rodbury.  The  houses  were  in  a  bad  state  and 
overcrowded;  also,  as  much  of  the  land  lay  in  a 
triangle  enclosed  by  railway  lines,  it  tended  to  be 
a  pocket  towards  which  drained  the  lowest  type 
of  poor.  The  worst  slums  in  cities  are  usually 
to  be  found  in  just  such  oddments  of  land.  Rod- 
bury  was  not  London  nor  Leeds,  and  doubtlc:  s 
Nine  Elms,  Pentonville,  and  the  alleys  off  Dews- 
bury  Road  could  provide  more  sensational  mate- 
rial than  the  comparatively  small  Feetham  Street 
area  that  was  my  trouble,  but  the  Whern  estate 
was  so  little  industrial  that  any  problem  of  low 
class  urban  property  was  a  serious  one.  Although 
both  Michael  and  I  agreed  that  the  cottages  should 
be  demolished,   we   realized   that   there   was  no 


144  Privilege 

money  to  spare  for  so  drastic  an  undertaking. 
Therefore  it  was  with  relief  and  delight  that  I 
opened  one  morning  a  letter  from  a  firm  of  lawyers 
inquiring,  on  behalf  of  the  railway  company, 
whether  Lord  Whern  would  be  inclined  to  sell 
this  very  district.  With  Michael's  authorization 
I  interviewed  the  solicitors  and  grasped  that  the 
land  was  of  essential  importance  to  the  company 
for  a  scheme  of  developing  the  goods  and  passenger 
facilities  at  Rodbury.  Negotiations  were  pro- 
longed, but  ultimately  they  paid  over  a  large  sum 
of  money,  and  the  triangle  of  courts  and  tumble- 
down tenements  passed  forever  from  the  possession 
of  the  Bradens.  The  capital  thus  acquired  was 
invested  in  shipping  and  industrial  shares,  partly 
in  England,  but  mainly  abroad.  A  time  came  when 
this  investment  made  possible  for  me  what  would 
otherwise  have  been  impossible.  But  of  that  at 
its  proper  time. 

As  in  my  actual  existence,  so  in  this  posthumous 
narrative  (for  it  is  one  Richard  Braden  that  writes 
of  the  failure  or  the  triumph  of  another),  the 
human  element  crops  up  constantly  and  always. 
I  could  fill  my  mind  with  the  duties  of  my  regency ; 
I  could  spend  long  days  motoring  from  village  to 
village,  from  farm  to  farm ;  but  at  the  back  of  my 


Privilege  J45 

mind  were  forever  the  personality  of  my  brother, 
the  personality  of  his  wife,  their  relations  to  each 
other,  and  my  relations  to  them  both.  During 
those  weeks  of  November  and  December  there 
might  have  been  only  the  three  of  us  in  existence, 
so  intense  was  my  preoccupation  with  ourselves. 
Anthony,  whom  I  saw  constantly;  Mary,  who 
would  appear  at  Christmas  after  close  on  a  year 
of  silent  absence;  Monica  with  her  foreign  noble- 
man— were  labeled  boxes  for  which  the  keys  were 
on  their  way,  but  not  yet  arrived. 

I  have  recorded  the  scene,  at  the  time  of  the 
arrest,  when  Barbara  took  for  pity  what  was 
really  Michael's  pride.  The  incident  helped  me 
to  understand  the  foundation  of  their  marriage, 
and  to  myself  I  hazarded  some  such  reconstruction 
as  the  following.  Barbara  met  Michael  during 
his  brief  period  of  exile.  He  was  in  that  cruelest 
of  positions  for  the  conscious  aristocrat,  the  posi- 
tion of  a  martyr  to  moral  principle.  Any  less 
bourgeois  form  of  martyrdom  would  have  fed  and 
nourished  his  dignity,  but,  for  a  person  of  his 
temperament,  the  knowledge  that  his  action  might 
be  held  up  for  the  shallow  ridicule  of  the  easy 
moralists  of  his  class  must  have  been  torture. 
Under  these  trials  he  bore  himself  with  quiet 


10 


i46  Privilege 

determination,  emotion  seemingly  reduced  to  a 
scientific  formula,  anger  and  embarrassment  frozen 
to   punctilious   attitude.     Barbara  Dawlish,  her 
natural  warmth  and  gayety  only  then  venturing 
timidly  from  the  defensive  listlessness  to  which 
they  had  been  driven  by  the  old  satyr  who  had 
bought  her  girlhood,  recognized  in  Michael  what 
she  believed  did  not  exist— a  man  with  appetite 
only  for  an  idea,  a  man  with  brains  and  with,  at 
the  same  time,  the  upright  conservatism  that  only 
breeding  can  give.     Michael,  on  the  other  hand, 
saw  in  her  primarily  a  victim  of  circumstance,  an 
outcast  as  he  was  from  that  upper  room  to  which 
both  by  rights  belonged,  and  secondarily  a  thing 
of  beauty.    His  pride  of  isolation  could  not  reject 
such  noble  companionship  in  distress.     Probably 
he  welcomed  her  acquaintance  as  strengthening 
the  cause  of  righteousness.     Probably,  also,  he 
endowed  her  with  a  dynastic  eminence  she  did  not 
really  possess,  a  slight  enough  piece  of  favoritism 
for  an  incipient  lover.     He  frequented  her  com- 
pany, and  was  tempted  gradually  to  an  unfolding 
of  his  aspirations,  to  a  slow  abandonment  of  the 
reserve  with  which  he  faced  the  world.     She  was 
all  sympathy  and  understanding;  or  so  it  seemed. 
Actually,  I  suspect,  she  read  into  his  perplexities 


Privilege  i47 

and  unhappiness  something  more  humane  and 
ideal  than  the  rigid  devotion  to  the  conception  of 
nobility  that  sustained  him.  He,  on  his  part,  took 
her  encouragement  for  a  like  worship  to  his  own 
of  quality  as  against  quantity.  And  before  there 
was  time  for  the  reality  of  their  concord  to  be 
questioned,  he  flamed  into  consciousness  of  her 
womanhood  and  fell  in  love.  I  have  spoken  of  the 
occasion  when,  at  the  height  of  his  infatuation,  I 
met  him  and  Barbara  at  the  cinema.  I  have  said 
that  he  was  so  unlike  the  Michael  I  knew,  that  the 
external  sameness  was  uncanny,  cloaking  as  it  did 
a  being  I  hardly  recognized.  It  was  as  though  a 
familiar  statue  had  come  alive.  The  symptoms  of 
her  affection  escaped  me.  It  was  the  first  time  I 
had  seen  her;  she  was  a  woman  and  mistress  of 
her  emotions.  But  I  think  my  feeling  was  accurate 
that  her  fondness  was  more  admiring  than  passion- 
ate. His  cold  brilliance  dazzled,  and  the  woman 
in  her  worshiped  the  unflinching  light  of  his  distant 
courage. 

But  when  circumstances  set  Michael  on  his 
rightful  throne  she  began  to  suspect  fanaticism, 
where  in  adversity  she  had  seen  only  single-mindcd- 
ness.  His  devotion  to  duty,  his  methodical 
integrity,  were  as  complete  as  ever,  but  the  end 


i48  Privilege 

to  which  they  were  directed  puzzled  her.  At  the 
time,  for  example,  when  the  sale  of  the  Rodbury 
tenements  was  first  discussed,  she  endeavored  to 
follow  out  the  implications  of  the  proposed  transfer 
of  ownership. 

"I'm  so  glad,  Micky,"  she  said.  "It  has  been 
horrible  to  think  we  could  do  nothing  to  make 
that  place  better.    I'm  all  in  favor  of  closing." 

"At  any  price,  child?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  values!  But  Dick 
said  something  ending  in  thousands.  It  sounds 
heaps." 

"I  think  we  can  get  more,  Barbara,"  I  said. 
"The  company  must  have  the  land." 

"And  they'll  pull  all  those  dreadful  slums  down." 

Michael  nodded. 

"I  imagine  the  whole  space  will  be  sheds  and 
sidings.  They'll  have  to  bank  up  a  lot  of  it. 
They're  enlarging  the  stations  too,  Dick,  aren't 
they?" 

"Then  where  will  the  poor  people  go?"  asked 
Barbara. 

Her  husband  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But  they  must  go  somewhere,"  she  persisted. 

"Really,  Barbara,  I'm  not  a  housing  authority." 

She  looked  at  him  with  troubled  eyes. 


Privilege  i49 

"No,  of  course  not.  But  somehow  it  seems  we 
are  a  little  responsible.  They  have  lived  in  filth 
because  our  predecessors — well — didn't  or  couldn't 
bother.  And  now  they  are  merely  to  be  driven 
away.   ..." 

' '  I'm  afraid,  my  dear,  that  is  hardly  my  business. 
There  are  other  houses  in  Rodbury " 

"Glenny  told  me  two  days  ago  the  place  was 
crowded  out,  Michael; — that  working  families 
were  camped  on  open  spaces,  and  that  the  com- 
pany were  putting  up  hundreds  of  men  in  an  old 
factory." 

"Well  then,  they'll  have  to  go  somewhere  else." 
He  turned  to  me.  "Will  you  write  to  Turner 
about  the  title  deeds?  And  tell  him  I  won't  go 
below  the  figure  we  arranged  yesterday?  Now, 
I  must  write  some  letters.  Send  Miss  Carrick  up 
to  me,  Barbara." 

He  left  the  room. 


This  tiny  incident  developed.  It  happened  that 
Barbara  met  the  Socialist  leader  on  the  Rodbury 
Council  at  a  bazaar  the  following  afternoon.  From 
what  she  told  me  afterwards,  I  gather  that  he 
painted  a  moving  picture  of  housing  conditions 


150  Privilege 

in  the  town  and  expressed  a  wish  that  some  phil- 
anthropist would  urge  and  assist  the  railway 
company  to  build  a  garden  city  for  some  part  of 
the  huge  population  that  depended  on  the  great 
junction.  Incidentally  he  inquired  whether  no- 
thing was  to  be  done  to  improve  conditions  in  the 
Feetham  Street  district. 

"I  couldn't  tell  him  about  the  possible  sale,  you 
see,"  she  complained,  "and  it  hurts  me  to  have  to 
say  we  are  planning  no  repairs  or  clearances.  He 
inquired  if  I'd  ever  been  in  person  to  see  what  the 
place  was  like.    So  I  asked  him  to  take  me." 

"When?"  I  queried,  rather  startled. 

"We  went  at  once,"  she  replied  calmly. 

"Well?" 

"Oh,  it's  disgusting!  No  human  beings  could 
be  expected  to  keep  pigs  in  such  places.  Grown-up 
girls  and  young  men  herded  in  single  rooms,  in 
single  beds  even.  No  water;  no  sanitation.  I 
don't  want  to  exaggerate.  I've  seen  worse  in 
Liverpool  and  South  Wales  and  in  London,  but 
this   time    I   felt   hideously   guilty.      Especially 

as 

"Yes?"  I  prompted  her  hesitation. 

"Especially  as  Mr.  Verney  made  a  point  of 
telling  people  who  I  was.   ..." 


Privilege  151 

"The  devil  he  did!"  I  said,  and  wondered  what 
the  fellow  had  in  mind.  I  knew  Verney  slightly, 
a  bitter  fighter  and  a  genuine,  if  unscrupulous, 
extremist. 

"That  was  not  very  courteous,"  1  added  aloud. 

Poor  Barbara  looked  distressed  and  worried. 

"It  seemed  to  make — to  make  things  harder 
for  me.  But  I  suppose  I  deserved  it.  The 
contrast  to  this.  .  .  ."  And  she  swept  her  arm 
towards  the  long  drawing-room  with  its  shining 
furniture  and  pale,  exquisite  rugs. 

"Then  I  hope  all  the  more  the  company  will 
buy,"  I  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  HOUSE  PARTY 


It  is  not  easy  in  a  narrative  of  this  kind  to  hold 
a  balance  of  values.  Happenings  in  retrospect  are 
more  definite  than  in  actual  experience  and  indi- 
cations, noticeable  to  one  who  has  learnt  their 
later  significance,  pass  imperceptibly  at  the  time 
of  their  first  faint  appearing.  Wherefore,  if  I  have 
given  an  impression  that  the  tranquillity  of  Mi- 
chael's headship  was  as  yet  even  gently  ruffled,  I 
am  misleading  the  reader  at  the  same  time  as  I  am 
paying  his  due  of  accuracy.  Christmas  and  its 
house -party  were  so  complete  a  success  that  a  new 
and  glorious  era  seemed  indeed  to  have  opened. 
Whern  was  in  a  way  to  become  once  again  a  great 
Wiltshire  house.  The  honor  of  Braden  was  all 
but  reestablished.  Michael  worked  hard  to  create 
so  soon  an  impression  of  solidity  and  importance. 
In  London  politically,  in  Wiltshire  socially,  he  was 

152 


A  House  Party  153 

winning  a  rapid  way  to  prominence.  Every 
Sunday  that  he  spent  at  home  was  devoted  to  the 
work  of  landlordism,  to  political  correspondence, 
and  to  some  form  of  social  responsibility.  Horse- 
manship and  good  shooting  stood  him  in  good 
stead,  and  he  earned  the  respect  of  the  surrounding 
landowners  more  by  his  style  and  daring  in  the 
hunting-field  and  by  his  skill  with  a  gun  than  by 
any  community  of  ideas.  I  daresay  they  found 
him  personally  stiff  and  aloof ;  certainly  he  regarded 
them  as  either  gross  or  flaccid.  His  only  real 
intimate  was  Shrivenham,  an  earl  of  the  old  school, 
who  at  the  age  of  fifty  was  still  a  bachelor,  and 
lived  a  life  of  feudal  and  solitary  splendor  behind 
the  mediaeval  walls  of  his  famous  house  near 
Dauntney  Abbas.  Shrivenham  was  an  acquaint- 
ance of  Michael's  boyhood.  He  would  invite  the 
lad  to  Dauntney  for  long  afternoons,  which  were 
spent  pacing  the  lawn  or  before  the  log  fire  in  the 
huge  open  fireplace  of  the  banqueting-hall.  Mi- 
chael would  give  no  details  of  his  visits  to  the 
strange,  proud  man,  who  refused  dealings  with 
Black  Whern,  and  from  whom  Harold  would  have 
looked  for  recognition  last  of  the  whole  population 
of  Debrett.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  however, 
that  Shrivenham 's  influence  was  strong  with  my 


154  Privilege 

brother  and  wholly  on  the  side  of  that  rigid  eti- 
quette of  caste,  to  which  Michael's  own  nature  so 
strongly  inclined.  It  was  common  knowledge  that 
Shrivenham  had,  since  his  undergraduate  days, 
been  haughtily  exclusive  to  the  pitch  of  absurdity. 
Before  he  inherited  or  thought  to  inherit  the  title, 
he  had  dreamed  of  nobility  and  the  restoration  of 
its  ancient  prestige.  With  the  earldom  came  the 
opportunity  for  living  his  imaginings,  and  he  took 
that  opportunity  with  zest  and  magnificence,  if, 
also,  with  a  certain  lack  of  humor. 

To  his  old  mentor  and  respected  senior  Michael 
now  returned  as  more  of  an  equal.  He  made  the 
renewal  of  relations  between  Dauntney  and  Whern 
something  of  a  test  of  the  success  of  his  policy  of 
rehabilitation.  To  spend  two  days  with  Barbara 
at  Dauntney  was  a  step  in  the  right  direction, 
but  it  was  not  until  Shrivenham  (in  a  moment  of 
kindliness  which  I  suspect  he  later  regretted) 
promised  to  spend  Christmas  at  Whern,  that 
Michael  felt  he  had  triumphed.  Certainly  the 
name  made  a  startling  heading  to  the  very  homely 
list  of  the  other  guests.  But  Michael  maintained 
that  Shrivenham  had  only  consented,  because  the 
invitation  was  to  a  family  gathering.  I  think  he 
regarded  this  star  visitor  as  a  collector  regards  a 


A  House  Party  155 

rare  edition  or  a  priceless  vase,  for  there  were  few 
houses  in  England  that  the  lonely  man  had  ever 
been  known  to  visit. 

"It's  rather  awful!"  said  Barbara.  "I  almost 
wish  he  wasn't  coming.  We  shall  have  to  behave 
so  well." 

We  were  having  breakfast. 

"The  Pope  himself  wouldn't  impress  Monica," 
I  remarked  from  the  sideboard,  where  I  was  busy 
with  the  coffee  pot. 

"Incidentally,  don't  forget  that  he  is  very  High 
Church."  Michael's  warning  was  comically  seri- 
ous, as  though  we  were  children  likely  to  be 
tempted  to  awkward  questions  by  a  visitor  with 
a  glass  eye. 

"You  must  address  the  family,  Micky,"  said 
his  wife,  "and  see  that  they  understand." 

Her  tone  was  of  a  gentle  solemnity,  and  Michael 
seemed  wholly  unsuspicious,  but  as  I  came  to  my 
place  I  glanced  at  her  amusedly,  for  I  heard  the 
irony  behind  the  wifeliness. 

"Who  exactly  are  coming?"  asked  Michael. 

"Monica,  her  Hungarian,  and  her  friends  the 
Easterhams;  Mary  and  some  friend  from  Cam- 
bridge; Jim,  I  hope;  Agatha  Chaldon  and  her 
husband  and  kids — er — us  three,  of  course,  and 


156  Privilege 

Anthony — and  Lord  Shrivenham.  Are  you  asking 
a  selection  of  political  pundits?"  Barbara  smiled 
at  her  husband. 

Michael  was  genial  and  took  no  exception  to  a 
familiarity  that  would,  at  a  less  favorable  moment, 
have  provoked  chilliness  or  even  reproof. 

"Not  this  time,  I  think,"  he  replied.  "They 
can  wait.  Well,  everyone  seems  provided  for 
except  poor  brother  Richard.  Who  is  he  in- 
viting?" 

"I  have  no  friends,"  I  said  simply,  and  I  confess 
that  the  look  of  sympathy  from  Barbara  was  not 
unhoped  for. 

' '  Rubbish, ' '  said  Michael  briskly.  ' '  What  about 
that  little  woman  in  Chelsea — I  forget  the  name 


How  calamitous  is  the  roguishness  of  the  serious- 
minded  !  On  his  normal  occasions  Michael  lacked 
resiliency  and  on  matters  of  intimate  principle  was 
ignorant  of  compromise,  but  he  never  fumbled. 
And  now,  in  a  sudden  access  of  levity,  he  was 
guilty  of  this  clumsy  tactlessness.  He  had  re- 
covered his  poise  at  the  last  moment,  in  time  to 
feign  forgetfulness  of  a  name,  but  too  late  to 
acquit  him  of  a  seemingly  wanton  cruelty.  For  a 
second   I   stared   at   him   speechless,   too   much 


A  House  Party  157 

amazed  at  the  brutal  resurrection  of  a  dead  sorrow 
to  reply.    Then,  as  it  entered  my  head: 

"Oh,  you  mean  that  poor  little  cripple,  Alice 
Macgregor?  She  has  left  London  and  gone  to  her 
folks  in  Scotland.    I  hope  she  is  happy  at  last." 

Michael  was  as  near  blushing  as  his  calm  pallor 
would  admit ;  I  could  see  that  he  was  marveling  at 
his  own  indiscretion.  He  made  a  pitiful  pretense 
of  gratification  at  my  news. 

"I  am  glad.  I  have  often  thought  of  her  and 
how  she  must  miss  you." 

There  was  silence.  Why  did  Barbara  say 
nothing?  I  dared  not  look  at  her,  fearing  every 
second  that  she  would  press,  in  her  kindly  curiosity, 
for  more  detail  of  this  imaginary  and ,  so  far  as  I  could 
judge,  painfully  mawkish  Samaritanism  of  my  un- 
certain past.  Michael  spoke  again,  with  nervous 
off-handedness. 

"We  shall  only  be  fifteen,  then.  They'll  come 
on  the  Wednesday,  I  suppose?  Christmas  is 
Friday,  I  think.  The  horses  will  be  ready  enough. 
You'll  see  the  small  course  is  in  some  sort  of  order, 
Dick?  Barbara  will  arrange  the  evenings.  How 
splendid  to  be  able  to  leave  these  details  in  such 
able  hands!" 

His  complacency  was  as  little  convincing  to  my 


158  Privilege 

ear  as  had  been  his  interest  in  that  infernal 
cripple.  It  was  a  relief  when  Barbara  rose  sud- 
denly and  announced  that  she  heard  someone  in 
the  greenhouse  and  wished  to  send  an  order  to 
the  kitchen  garden. 

When  she  had  disappeared,  Michael  came  be- 
hind my  chair  and  laid  a  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"Dick,"  he  said,  "I  just  cannot  conceive  what 
possessed  me !  It  was  as  though  someone  else  had 
begun  the  sentence.    I  apologize.    Forgive  me." 

"That's  all  right,"  I  muttered  and  bent  over 
my  marmalade.  "But  you  startled  me.  I  had  al- 
most forgotten  it. "  Then  in  a  sudden  revengeful  mo- 
ment- "Her  name  was  Ursula,"  I  said,  "Ursula 
Clavering." 

He  withdrew  his  hand  sharply  and  walked  to 
the  door. 

"I  have  already  apologized,"  he  observed  coldly. 

When  she  returned  Barbara  found  me  alone, 
staring  absently  at  the  table-cloth.  She  stood  at 
the  French  window  a  moment  and  I  felt  that  her 
compassionate  eyes  were  watching  me.  I  looked 
up  and  forced  a  smile. 

"Hullo,"  I  said.  "Have  you  made  sure  of  to- 
night's vegetables?" 

"Poor  Dick,"  she  replied  softly. 


A  House  Party  159 

She  became  a  symbol  of  comfort,  as  she  stood 
against  the  light,  her  arm  raised  to  the  heavy 
curtain,  the  slight  curve  of  her  rounded  body  a 
faint  question-mark.  In  the  face  of  this  gentle 
plea  for  confidence,  my  reserve  broke  down. 

"I  should  like  to  tell  you,"  I  said,  "I  insist  on 
telling  you,  Barbara, — all  about  it." 

"Better  not,  Dick.  .  .  .  Please.  .  .  .  Un- 
less it  helps.   ..." 

Once  again  the  breath  of  encouragement,  once 
again  the  far  call  to  confession. 

"It  more  than  helps.  I  should  have  done  so 
before  if  I  had  not — forgotten  about  it." 

'You  shall  tell  me  to-night,  Dick,"  she  said. 
"Not  now.     To-night." 

It  was  Monday  morning  and  I  remembered  that 
Michael  left  for  town  immediately  after  lunch. 


II 


'This  is  the  story,"  I  said  casually,  "whether 
you  care  to  hear  it  or  not." 

Barbara  tilted  her  feet  on  to  the  sofa  and  reached 
down  for  a  cigarette.  The  gesture  caught  my 
attention.  It  was  unfamiliar  to  me  as  coming  from 
Barbara,  but  yet  I  recognized  it  and  with  a  sudden 


160  Privilege 

twinge  of  discomfort.  The  long  slope  of  the  bare 
arm,  the  fingers  like  flickering  ghosts  groping  along 
the  dark  floor,  I  had  seen  them  often  before.  Often 
and  often.  Many  times  from  just  such  a  deep 
chair  as  this,  had  I  watched,  with  dreamy  fascina- 
tion, the  uncanny  vitality  of  pale  gliding  fingers, 
the  motionless  column  of  a  tense  white  arm. 

"What's  the  matter?'  asked  Barbara.  "Go 
ahead." 

I  apologized. 

"It  was  only  your  reaching  down  like  that  and 
feeling  about  for  the  cigarettes.  It  reminded  me 
.  .  .  Now  for  the  story.  The  business  began  at 
the  Chelsea  Arts.  I  was  just  down  from  Oxford, 
very  intense  both  in  my  frivolity  and  earnestness, 
rather  hypnotized  by  the  glamor  of  studios  and 
the  pseudo-bohemianism  which  our  caste  is  apt  to 
affect.  I  had  gone  to  Covent  Garden  with  a  party 
of  eight  or  nine.  I  almost  forget  now  who  they 
were;  anyway  it  is  of  no  consequence.  Of  course 
I  was  as  useless  a  dancer  as  I  am  now,  but  I 
wandered  about  in  a  remarkable  turban,  prided 
myself  on  knowing  lots  of  people  and  generally 
had  a  vapid  and  entertaining  time.  Then  about 
three  o'clock  I  ran  into  an  actor  I  knew  who  was 
standing  with  a  girl  and  looking  about  him  in  a 


A  House  Party  161 

worried  way.  He  hailed  me  effusively  and,  after 
a  few  words  of  triviality,  asked  his  partner  whether 
she  would  excuse  him  for  a  few  moments.  He  had 
promised  to  give  an  important  message  to  a  fellow 
actor,  had  forgotten  it,  and  now  felt  a  sudden  fear 
lest  the  man  might  be  departing. 

'"This  is  Mrs.  Clavering,  Braden,'  he  said. 
'Your  well-known  charm  of  manner — all  that 
kind  of  thing ' 

"And  with  a  bow  he  left  her  to  my  care.  She  was 
small  and  dark  with  a  face  powdered  dead  white, 
brilliant  lips,  and  eyes  like  purple  crocuses  in 
snow. 

"  'Are  you  the  Mr.  Braden  whose  name  I  see  in 
Notes  and  Queries? ' 

' '  I  am  sure  I  blushed  with  pleasure.    And  was  she 
related  to  Clavering  the  sculptor? 
'  'I  have  the  privilege  to  be  his  wife.' 

'"Is  he  here  to-night?' 

'"Oh  no!    He  despises  such  frivolities.' 

"I  had  enough  perception  to  utter  no  conven- 
tional compliment  of  her  husband's  work.  It  would 
have  been  insincere  at  best,  for  Clavering  was  a 
maker  of  daintiness  and  allegory  and  his  popularity 
was  of  the  kind  that  demands  continual  repetition 
of  one  somewhat  tenuous  achievement.  Apart 
ii 


1 62  Privilege 

from  all  that,  however,  I  had  an  instinct  that  the 
subject  would  fail  to  grip. 

"We  drifted  to  a  seat  and  talked  ostensibly  of 
books  and  pictures  and  furniture  and  music  but 
actually  of  other  people.  She  was  very  gay  and 
a  mistress  of  that  spiced  comment  that  is  always 
indiscretion  and  often  malice.  The  time  slipped 
away.  I  wondered  idly  where  my  party  had  got  to. 
Suddenly  she  said : 

"  'You  have  passionate  eyes,  Braden.  I  suspect 
you  are  a  secret  poet.' 

"The  use  of  my  surname  flattered  me  even  more 
than  the  actual  tenor  of  her  words. 

'"It  sounds  a  disreputable  and  evil  thing,'  I 
said  lightly. 

"  'I  didn't  mean  quite  that,'  she  laughed.  And 
then,  after  a  pause,  'Though  if  I  had  done,  I 
disagree.' 

"The  remark  had  so  clearly  ulterior  implication, 
that  I  made  no  reply,  but  docketed  the  speaker 
in  my  mind  (as  doubtless  she  intended  I  should) 
under  the  heading  'Genuine  Bohemian.'" 

Barbara  smiled  slightly  at  this  point,  and  I 
caught  her  up. 

"Don't  laugh  at  me!  I've  admitted  all  the 
callowness  and  provinciality." 


A  House  Party  163 

"I'm  not  laughing  at  you,  Dick!  It  was  only  a 
smile  of  affection  for  your  vanished  youth." 

This  jarred  me  slightly,  so  I  resumed  my  story. 

'"What  is  the  time?'  was  Mrs.  Clavering's  next 
question. 

"It  was  after  four. 

'"Let's  go  home,'  she  said. 

"We  left  the  theater  together  and  walked  west- 
wards through  the  cold  clear  darkness.  At  a 
coffee  stall  we  had  a  hot  drink.  I  asked  her  where 
she  lived.  Chelsea.  I  was  in  rooms  in  Westminster 
at  that  time — as  you  know,  the  parental  roof  was 
not  quarrel-proof — and,  with  unnecessary  pom- 
posity, suggested  I  should  see  her  home  'because 
it  was  on  my  way.'  We  found  a  taxi.  She  pulled 
me  towards  her. 

'"It's  cold,'  she  said  with  a  pretty  shudder. 
'Come  and  sit  right  up  to  me.' 

"We  traveled  to  Chelsea  in  very  close  company, 
but  she  made  no  further  remark  or  gesture  that 
was  in  any  way  forthcoming.     As  we  pulled  up 
at  her  door  she  laid  a  hand  on  my  arm. 
"Come  to  tea  to-morrow,  Braden?' 

'"I  should  love  to.' 

"She  jumped  out,  shut  the  door,  and  then  poked 
her  absurd  little  head  in  at  the  open  window. 


1 64  Privilege 

"'Good-night,'  she  said. 

'"Good-night,  Mrs.  Clavering.' 

'"Oh,  la  la!'  she  exclaimed.  'Not  like  that, 
please!    The  name  is  Ursula.' 

"'Good-night — Ursula,'  I  replied  with  what  was 
doubtless  charming  gaucherie.'r 

This  time  Barbara  laughed  outright.  I  queried 
the  joke  with  raised  eyebrows. 

"You  are  so  perfect,  Dick!  The  candor  of  your 
detachment ! ' ' 

"But—"  I  began. 

"Oh,  it's  splendid;  most  accurate.  But  I  didn't 
think  many  men  analyzed  their  effect  on  women 
so  thoroughly." 

Once  again  I  felt  slightly  ruffled,  and  once  again 
hastened  to  proceed. 

"Well,  I  went  to  tea.  By  daylight  she  was 
more  alluring  because  less  considered.  With 
fancy  dress  she  sloughed  off  the  powder,  and  the 
sallow  languor  of  her  skin  had  the  gentleness  of  grass 
from  which  snow  has  melted  suddenly ;  her  crocus 
eyes  were  less  violet  than  against  the  mask  of 
make-up,  but  in  their  greater  softness  more  caress- 
ing. She  greeted  me  gravely.  It  was  a  desultory 
visit.  Conversation  jogged  through  a  slumbrous 
countryside.    Such  sense  of  adventure  as  may  have 


A  House  Party  165 

possessed  me  faded  into  drowsy  comfort.  Claver- 
ing  came  in  just  as  I  was  leaving.  He  was  terribly 
the  artist — Vandyke  beard,  double  bow-tie,  even 
a  velvet  coat.  He  pressed  my  hand  absently,  ran 
his  long  fingers  over  his  wife's  hair,  took  a  maca- 
roon from  the  plate,  and,  munching  it,  drifted  from 
the  room  again.   .    .    . 

"To  this  day  I  cannot  understand  why  anything 
more  ever  happened.  I  was  not  bored,  but  I  left 
the  house  with  that  feeling  that  something  looked 
forward  to  had  proved  a  failure  and  that  the 
future  was  without  landmarks.  Nevertheless  I 
was  there  again  three  days  later,  this  time  for 
lunch. 

"So  it  went  on.  You  must  understand  that  in 
appearance  and  in  fact  this  acquaintanceship  was 
perfectly  normal.  There  were  usually  other  people 
there;  I  was  merely  one  of  a  crowd  of  friends. 
Similarly  when,  as  happened  with  growing  fre- 
quency, I  asked  her  out,  it  was  to  meet  my  friends 
(I  had  quite  a  lot  in  those  days !)  and  my  relations. 
Monica  and  Michael  got  to  know  her  well.  You 
remember  how  the  whole  question  was  revived 
this  morning?  Michael  came  to  regard  Ursula  as 
a  special  fancy  of  mine.  Only  that,  as  they  say, 
and  nothing  more. 


166  Privilege 

"What  a  rotten  story  this  is!  It  just  drivels  on. 
as  my  friendship  with  Ursula  driveled  on,  for 
months." 

"Until — ?"  queried  Barbara. 

"Exactly.     Until " 

She  smiled  encouragingly. 

"There  again!"  I  said  impatiently.  "Until 
nothing — nothing  that  I  can  tell,  so  to  speak.  It 
just  happened.  One  day,  I  suppose,  the  romantic 
conceit  of  youth  whispered  that  Ursula's  friendship 
might  be  something  more.  I  began  to  wonder  why 
she  saw  me  so  often.  And,  naturally,  having  once 
begun  to  imagine  that  she  was  'asking  for  it'  I 
came  to  regard  it  as  incumbent  on  my  virility  to 
deliver  the  goods.  So  I  slithered  into  love-making 
down  the  rope  of  my  vanity.  She  feigned  resent- 
ment. I  was  very  persevering  and  masculine. 
She  began  to  weaken.  It  was  all  wonderfully 
according  to  convention " 

"Dick!"  interrupted  Barbara,  "don't  be  cyni- 
cal.   You  know  it  was  lovely  at  the  time." 

I  stared  at  her.  And  I  realized  that  she  needed 
only  this  touch  of  hedonism  to  be  perfect.  For  a 
moment  I  had  a  vision  of  a  sunlit  glade,  a  riot  of 
autumn  leaves,  and  heard,  just  out  of  sight,  the 
low  laughter  of  pagan  girlhood.     Her  high  color 


A  House  Party  167 

and  the  firm  splendor  of  her  throat.  .  .  .  Then 
the  urgent  faun  in  pursuit — and  my  eye  caught 
the  clumsy  patent  leather  of  my  cripple's  shoe. 
A  hoof  indeed!  Instantly  I  was  a  drawing-room 
lover,  an  ugly  thing  of  intrigue  and  starched  linen. 
The  wild  beauty  of  the  forest  of  love  shrank  to  a 
furtive  daub,  with  lamp-posts  feebly  tricked  out 
as  trees  and,  over  the  entrance  of  a  pasteboard 
glade,  a  rain-blotched  signboard  promising  dubious 
hospitality. 

' ' Lovely  ? "  I  said  thoughtfully.  "Is  fake  passion 
ever  lovely?" 

She  laughed. 

"Good  heavens!  As  if —  Never  mind;  get  on 
with  the  story." 

I  determined  to  risk  a  throw. 

"You  talk  like  a  worshiper  of  Astarte." 

"Did  they  talk  much?" 

I  gripped  the  arms  of  my  chair  in  dangerous 
excitement.  And  then  once  again  she  reached 
for  a  cigarette.  It  was  as  though  a  lantern  slide 
had  been  interposed  between  us,  for  I  saw  Ursula 
and  not  Barbara,  and  the  sparse  mockery  of  past 
failure  blotted  out  the  opulent  promise  of  a  new 
delirium.     The  tension  relaxed. 

"Matches,"  I  said  and  threw  the  box  into  her 


1 68  Privilege 

lap.  She  lit  her  cigarette  and  lay  back  on  the 
cushions. 

"Do  get  on,"  she  said  dully. 

The  story  had  become  an  indescribable  ennui. 
I  felt  so  tired  that  even  speech  required  deliberate 
effort.  There  had  been  an  emotional  miscarriage; 
the  climax  had  come  before  its  time  and  unnatur- 
ally. Properly  managed  this  tale  of  Ursula  should 
have  gently  led  up  to — what  ?  At  least  to  an  effect 
of  some  kind.  Its  only  purpose  was  to  react  on  the 
relationship  between  Barbara  and  me.  Of  course 
we  both  realized  the  force  of  fictional  stimulus. 
That  was  the  idea  of  the  whole  thing.  And  now — 
Best  to  get  it  over  quickly.  Wherefore,  feeling 
shamefaced  but,  I  hope,  not  looking  it,  I  resumed : 

"Having  assumed  the  part  of  lover,  I  became 
fairly  competent.  Clavering  was  abroad.  We 
wandered  into  the  studio  after  dinner  and  the 
moon,  shining  through  the  glass  roof,  threw  a 
strange  thin  light  over  the  pale  lumps  of  statuary. 
It  was  like  being  under  water,  and  the  graceful 
nudity  of  the  familiar  Clavering  nymphs  looked 
as  nearly  actual  as  was  possible  to  anything  per- 
taining to  them.    I  felt  a  stirring  of  desire. 

"  '  He  must  have  charming  models,'  I  said. 

'"For  example?' 


A  House  Party  169 

"She  was  standing  full  in  the  moonlight.  Her 
white  dress  blended  into  the  pallor  of  her  neck  and 
arms.  It  seemed  to  dissolve  first  into  mist,  then 
into  transparency.  She  became  one  of  the  throng 
of  them,  as  faintly  alluring  in  the  soft  greenish 
light.  Only  her  dark  hair  and  the  velvet  shadows 
of  her  eyes  gave  her  the  touch  of  humanity  that 
made  her  nudity  a  challenge  and  not  mere 
passivity " 

I  heard  my  own  voice  and  the  studied  rhythm  of 
the  words.  Embarrassed  and  doubly  weary  I 
stopped  short. 

"Charming,  Dick,"  said  Barbara  lazily.  "I 
can  picture  it  entirely.  And  you  took  her  in  your 
arms.  Row  of  dots  across  the  page.  'At  dawn  he 
left  her,  left  her  lying  there  with  her  dark  hair 
straying  wantonly  over  the  pillow, — That's  the 
way  it  goes;  admit  it." 

"Please!"  I  said.  "You  are  right  to  puncture 
an  inflated  style,  but  I  don't  enjoy  telling  this,  you 
know." 

She  glanced  at  me  and  melted  to  divine  sym- 
pathy. 

"Poor  Dick!"  Crossing  to  my  side  and  sitting 
on  the  arm  of  my  chair.  ' '  I  am  a  brute.  I've  been 
a  brute  all  the  evening.    Don't  tell  me  any  more." 


17°  Privilege 

"I  must  finish,"  I  said  quietly.  The  high  seri- 
ousness of  the  morning  was  upon  us  once  again. 
My  love  for  Barbara  was  once  again  an  inspiration 
and  not,  as  it  had  so  lately  been,  a  fever.  She 
went  quietly  back  to  her  sofa. 

' '  I  really  loved  Ursula  after  that  night.  Before 
I  had  been  a  little  conscious  of  my  own  daring 
and,  at  the  same  time,  a  little  afraid  of  her,  but 
now  she  became  the  very  reason  for  existence. 
We  were  everywhere  together.  Even  Michael 
twitted  me  on  my  devotion  and,  as  you  can  im- 
agine, he  was  the  last  of  my  circle  to  do  the  heavily 
humorous.  One  evening  I  asked  her  to  come 
away  with  me.  Clavering  was  due  back  in  Eng- 
land and  the  very  thought  of  him  made  me  sick 
with  jealousy.  She  refused.  I  implored  her.  She 
demanded  respite  for  thought.  'What  about 
money?'  she  asked.  It  was  to  my  then  infatua- 
tion a  delicious  touch  of  the  practical.  I  enlarged 
on  my  prospects.  'But  why  can't  we  go  on  as 
we  are?'  I  told  her  I  loved  her  too  much  and 
all  that.  All  the  old  protestations,  you  know,  but 
they  were  true  enough  then. 

"The  next  day  I  rang  her  up  to  say  I  would  be 
round  by  nine  o'clock.  She  had  to  go  out;  was 
horribly  sorry,  but  couldn't  avoid  it.     The  day 


A  House  Party  171 

became  a  wilderness.  In  the  evening,  restless  and 
miserable,  I  walked  along  the  river  to  squeeze  a 
drop  of  comfort  from  melancholy  gazing  at  her 
house.  And  then  a  taxi  drove  up,  stopped  at  the 
door,  and  disgorged  a  passenger.  Crossing  the 
road  quickly  I  was  able  to  recognize  him  as  he 
passed  inside.  It  was  a  young  novelist,  a  friend 
of  Monica's,  to  whom  I  had  introduced  Ursula  a 
week  before.  At  first  I  was  too  trustful  of  her  to 
suspect  deceit.  I  recrossed  the  road  and  leant 
over  the  river  parapet,  watching  the  lights  and 
the  faint  shadows  on  the  blue  darkness,  and,  half 
unconsciously,  going  over  in  my  mind  what  had 
just  occurred.  Suddenly  a  wild  idea  flamed  across 
my  brain.  Furious  with  anxiety,  I  went  straight 
to  her  door  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  'Mrs.  Clavering  is  not  at  home,  sir.' 
"As  I  turned  away,  believing  but  still  perplexed, 
something  fluttered  to  the  pavement  at  my  feet. 
It  was  a  ribbon  of  crimson  velvet,  and,  as  I  held  it 
in  my  hand,  I  heard  Ursula's  voice  float  mockingly 
along  the  darkness  above  my  head,  'Fly  away, 
ki-ite!' 

"I  have  that  ribbon  still.  She  used  to  wear  it 
in  her  hair  and  I  knew  only  too  well  how  the  hair 
slipped  over  her  white  shoulders  once  the  ribbon 


i72  Privilege 

was  removed.  It  was  a  bad  night  that  followed. 
I  was  too  young  to  endure  with  suitable  noncha- 
lance. Also  I  loved  her.  The  next  day  was  the 
last  before  Clavering's  return.  There  was  a  dinner 
party  at  Ursula's  and  I  was  to  go,  as  usual,  an  hour 
earlier  than  the  others.  I  went.  She  received  me 
with  her  customary  affection  and  expressed  alarm 
at  my  coldness.  I  blurted  out  my  anger  and  my 
misery.  I  must  have  been  pitiably  absurd.  At 
the  end  I  went  on  my  knees  to  her  and  begged 
for  her  love.  She  said  very  little;  merely  that  I 
must  have  mistaken  the  voice,  that  she  had  not 
been  at  home  the  night  before,  that  the  velvet 
ribbon  was  either  my  imagination  or  had  fallen 
from  the  window  of  another  house. 

'  'The  guests  arrived  slowly.  Michael  was  among 
them.  Last  of  all  appeared  the  young  novelist. 
You  can  imagine  what  that  dinner  was  like  for  me. 
I  could  give  you  every  detail  of  the  table  decora- 
tion, the  menu,  the  women's  clothes.  There  was 
ice  pudding  with  almonds  stuck  all  over  it.  And 
cheese  straws  in  rings.  I  thought  the  guests 
would  never  go,  but  I  was  determined  to  outstay 
them  all.  By  twelve  o'clock  only  I  and  the  novel- 
ist remained.  Ursula  yawned.  The  novelist 
looked  at  his  watch.    The  clock  ticked  dispassion- 


A  House  Party  173 

ately  from  the  corner.  Suddenly  Ursula  held  up  a 
finger.  'Hush,'  she  said.  Steps  were  audible  in 
the  hall.    She  turned  to  me. 

"  'Good-night,  Braden,'  she  said.  'Here  is  my 
husband.' 

"I  was  too  angry  to  reply.  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders  and,  when  Clavering  came  into  the  room, 
she  walked  straight  to  him  and  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"  'Jim,'  she  said,  'I  cannot  get  rid  of  Richard 
Braden.  He  has  been  annoying  me  for  weeks,  so 
to-night  I  told  him  you  were  still  abroad — just  to 
see  what  would  happen.  Will  you  please  help  him 
downstairs?  He  has  a  club-foot,  so  do  not  hurt 
him.    It  is  not  as  though  he  was  all  of  a  man.' 

"She  turned  her  back  on  me  and  went  straight 
over  to  where  the  novelist  was  sitting.  I  heard 
him  snigger  and  her  say,  conversationally : 

' '  'I  am  sorry  my  husband  is  so  late.  It  was  good 
of  you  to  wait  so  long  to  see  him.' 

"That  is  all.  I  have  not  seen  either  of  them 
since." 

"But  Clavering?    What  did  he  do?" 

"Oh,  he  was  all  to  pieces.  Hadn't  got  a  kick 
in  him.  He  just  followed  me  downstairs  twittering 
nervously.  Poor  devil,  I  daresay  he  felt  he  ought 
to  apologize  to  me  for  the  unpleasantness." 


174  Privilege 

"Then  how  did  Michael  know?" 

"You  would  hardly  expect  the  novelist  to  hold 
his  tongue?  The  clubs  knew  all  there  was  to 
know  and  rather  more  by  lunch-time  the  next 
day." 

"Oh,  Dick,  how  awful  for  you!" 

"It  did  me  good.  It's  hard  work  living  things 
down.  Anyway  you  know  now  what  really  hap- 
pened, and  that  is  what  matters." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  simply. 


in 

Mary  was  the  first  of  the  party  to  arrive.  She 
wrote  Michael  a  postcard  announcing  herself  for 
a  day  nearly  a  week  before  Christmas.  In  a  post- 
script she  added,  "Sloane  comes  Wednesday." 
Michael  being  away,  his  secretary  gave  the  card 
to  Barbara,  as  affecting  household  arrangements. 
"No  train  mentioned,"  observed  Barbara,  when 
I  stopped  on  my  way  across  the  hall  to  inquire 
what  perplexity  was  wrinkling  her  placid  fore- 
head. "No  shred  of  a  detail.  And  what  is 
Sloane?" 

I  read  over  her  shoulder.  The  message  was 
written   with  evident   affectation   of  untidiness. 


A  House  Party  175 

The  script  slanted  heavily  upwards  and  occupied 
only  the  extreme  top  corner  of  the  postcard. 

"I'll  look  out  some  possible  trains,"  I  said. 
"Don't  you  bother.  As  for  Sloane — time  will 
show.    Some  advanced  girl  graduate,  I  expect." 

I  looked  out  trains  and  decided  that  one  reaching 
Laylham  about  four  o'clock  would  appeal  to  a 
reasonable  traveler  from  Cambridge.     At  about 
half -past  three,  just  as  the  car  was  preparing  to 
leave,  Mary  walked  into  the  yard  and  so  through 
the  back  door.    Here  she  was  confronted  by  one 
of  the  footmen,  who  asked  her  business.   Her  reply 
was  laconic  and  unsatisfactory,  and  the  man  sent 
a  boy  to  tell  the  butler  to  tell  me  that  a  young 
person  was  inquiring  for   Mr.   Braden.     Unsus- 
pecting, I  gave  instructions  for  the  visitor  to  be 
shown  to  the  housekeeper's  room.    I  then  returned 
to  my  letters.     A  few  seconds  later  voices  and 
footsteps  in  the  hall  outside  my  door  spoke  of 
dispute  and  urgency.    I  opened  the  door  and  saw 
a  small  figure  in  a  shabby  brown  blanket  coat  and 
small  velour  hat  standing  unemotionally  in  front 
of  the  portly  butler,  who  was  gesticulating — re- 
spectably but  unmistakably  gesticulating — in  the 
direction  of  the  servants'  quarters.    The  stranger 
turned  and  saw  me. 


176  Privilege 

"Good  heavens,  Mary,"  I  cried.  "Where  have 
you  dropped  from?  All  right,  Levitt;  it's  Miss 
Braden." 

Levitt  retired  with  dignity.  Mary  gave  me  a  faint 
and  whimsical  smile  and  a  faint  but  chilly  hand. 

"Good  afternoon,  Dick.  It's  a  long  time  since 
I  was  here." 

"How  did  you  get  up?" 

"I  walked  from  Plaughton." 

"Plaughton?    But  there's  no  railway." 

"I  got  a  lift  there  from  Rodbury." 

"Luggage?" 

"It's  in  Rodbury  somewhere.  Verney  said  he 
would  leave  it  at  the  Co-op.  offices.  There's  only 
a  suitcase  and  a  hamper  of  books." 

I  was  riled. 

"Upon  rny  word,  Mary,  you  are  fairly  casual. 
How  do  you  imagine  it  is  to  come  all  that  distance 
here?  And  who  the  hell  is  Verney?  And  what  in 
the  name  of  heaven  took  you  to  Rodbury  at  all?" 

Again  she  smiled  with  gentle  abstraction. 

"I  seem  to  have  upset  your  arrangements.  Is 
her  ladyship  using  all  the  cars?" 

The  sneer  made  me  sufficiently  angry  to  realize 
that  I  was  so  and  to  set  a  guard  on  my  tongue. 

"Well,  never  mind.    I'll  see  what  can  be  done. 


A  House  Party  177 

And  we  must  find  Barbara.  I  think  she's  in  the 
park  practicing  approach  shots.  We  didn't  expect 
you  till  tea-time.  How  are  you?  And  why  have 
you  never  written  to  me?" 

"I'm  quite  well,"  she  answered.  "I'm  sorry  if 
you  were  expecting  letters.   I  have  been  very  busy. ' ' 

She  showed  a  complete  lack  of  curiosity  as  to 
Whern  and  the  new  regime.  I  remembered  that 
she  had  made  no  sign  of  any  kind  at  the  time  of 
Harold's  death.  Rather  tediously,  I  myself  sup- 
plied the  gaps  in  her  behavior.  It  was  convention- 
al of  me  and,  I  see  now,  must  have  provoked  her 
considerably. 

"We  are  very  busy  too,"  I  began.  "The  place 
is  getting  straight  at  last.  Michael  works  like  a 
Trojan,  and  Barbara — well,  you'll  meet  her  in  a 
moment  and  judge  for  yourself.  After  tea  you 
must  come  round  the  house  and  see  the  alterations. 
You  are  to  have  your  old  room.  The  organization 
had  gone  to  pieces.     Poor  old  Harold " 

"Why  poor?"  she  broke  in.  "He  was  a  black- 
guard." 

I  looked  at  her  levelly. 

"So  that  explains  it,"  I  said  quietly.  "It  was 
strange  hearing  nothing  from  you,  when  the  family 
was  in  trouble." 


IS 


178  Privilege 

"Drivel!"  she  retorted.  "That's  pure  rnaw- 
kishness.  You  know  well  enough  he  deserved 
anything  he  got.  But  you  were  always  a  senti- 
mentalist." 

We  were  crossing  the  park  and  I  was  glad  that 
the  sight  of  Barbara,  brandishing  a  golf  club  from 
the  edge  of  our  very  improvised  links,  made 
comment  from  me  unnecessary.  Mary  was  evi- 
dently difficult.  I  waved  my  cap  to  Barbara  and 
felt  suddenly  foolish,  as  though  I  were  a  silly  old 
man  surprised  by  a  supercilious  daughter  playing 
bears  with  village  children.  Embarrassment  drove 
me  to  the  fatuity  of  shouting. 

' '  Hullo ! "  I  cried.     ' '  Here's  Mary  come  early ! " 

Barbara  hurried  towards  us.  She  wore  a  short 
tweed  skirt,  and  her  beautiful  ankles,  her  strong 
brown  shoes,  and  her  general  air  of  cleanness  and 
strength,  restored,  as  with  a  click,  my  balance  and 
my  self-respect.  She  bent  impulsively  to  kiss  her 
sister-in-law,  holding  her  by  both  hands.  Mary 
turned  an  impassive  cheek,  released  herself  hur- 
riedly, and  once  more  smiled  that  beastly  smile. 

"Dick  is  angry  with  me,"  she  said,  "because 
I've  lost  my  luggage." 

This  was  grotesquely  inaccurate,  but  at  the  same 
time  precluded  explanation  on  my  part.     I  held 


A  House  Party  179 

fast  to  my  newly  won  control.  Barbara  gave  me  a 
humorous  glance  and  took  matters  in  hand. 

"I've  dropped  my  mashie  somewhere.  There 
it  is.  One  second."  She  ran  back  towards  the 
golf  course,  picked  up  her  club,  and  rejoined 
us.  The  pocket  of  her  sports  coat  bulged  with 
balls. 

"Let's  come  and  see  about  tea.  Have  you  seen 
your  room  ?  It's  your  old  one.  And  we  are  putting 
your  friend  next  door  for  company.  There  is  a 
connecting  door." 

Mary  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  aloud. 
It  was  an  unpleasant  laugh,  as  of  one  who  un- 
masks hypocrisy  and  seeks  to  shame  the  hy- 
pocrite by  mockery.  The  laughter  faded  suddenly 
and,  when  she  spoke,  it  was  in  her  usual  flat 
voice. 

"That's  rather  rich,"  she  said.  "But  we're  not 
like  that,  thank  you.  House  tradition  dies  hard, 
I  see.  I  must  tell  Sloane.  He'll  be  faintly 
amused." 

"He — ,"  began  Barbara.  Then  clearly  she  real- 
ized the  insult  of  Mary's  other  words.  She  bit 
her  lip  and  I  saw  her  somber  eyes  flame.  But 
courtesy  conquered,  and  she  echoed  politely  her 
visitor's  laughter. 


180  Privilege 

"What  a  stupid  mistake!  You  see  you  gave  us 
no  indication.  We  thought  your  friend  was  a  girl. 
I  am  so  sorry." 

We  had  reached  the  edge  of  the  sunk  fence  and 
skirted  the  ditch  towards  the  plank  that  gave 
access  to  the  lawn.  Barbara  looked  back  at  the 
massive  browns  and  grays  and  blacks  of  the 
December  woods. 

"You  don't  know  how  much  I  love  this  place 
already,"  she  said.  "I  have  told  Dick  and  must 
tell  all  of  you,  so  that  you  will  know  the  intruder 
is  at  least  conscious  of  her  good  fortune." 

I  watched  her,  and  with  the  devout  wonder  of  an 
astronomer  gazing  at  a  discovered  star.  She  was 
at  once  profound  and  lyrical,  warmly  intimate,  and 
immeasurably  distant.  The  love  of  the  familiar 
overbore  adoration.  She  became  the  symbol  of 
our  Wiltshire  countryside,  of  the  very  woods  them- 
selves, as  once  she  had  seemed  a  symbol  of  comfort. 
The  embodiments  blended,  and  I  felt  steal  over  me 
the  soothing  power  of  her  imperial  tenderness. 
Then,  suddenly  and  brutally,  the  male  in  me 
awoke.  I  wanted  her.  The  dark  hair  straying 
from  under  her  leather  hat ;  the  dusky  warmth  of 
her  proud  cheeks;  the  strong,  smooth  column  of 
her  neck;  all  the  taut  slimness  of  her  rich  young 


A  House  Party  181 

body  called  to  my  desire  and  called  again.     She 
was  imperial,  but  she  was  vincible.   .    .    . 

A  sensation  of  adjacent  emptiness  chilled  me  to 
reason.  I  looked  for  Mary  and  saw  that  she  had 
crossed  the  plank  and  was  walking  towards  the 
house.  I  was  angry  at  her  rudeness  in  thus  ignor- 
ing her  sister-in-law,  until  I  realized  that  I,  in  the 
imaginings  of  a  few  seconds,  had  dishonored 
Michael's  wife.  Shivering  as  one  fresh  from  a  bout 
of  fever,  I  turned  away  and  left  her  standing  there. 


IV 


In  a  long  racing  car  of  glittering  aluminium 
Monica  and  her  Hungarian  swept  upon  Whern. 
Putzi  had  become  something  of  a  prophetic  legend. 
Anthony  pretended  to  expect  a  bronzed  desperado 
with  fierce  mustaches  and  the  costume  of  an  opera 
brigand.  Mary  explained  too  often  that  the 
Magyar  aristocrat  was  a  tyrannous  survival  and 
that  this  future  brother-in-law  was  certainly  arro- 
gant, dissolute,  and  half-witted.  It  was  therefore 
either  a  relief  or  a  disappointment  to  find  that  the 
leather  parcel  who  had  driven  Monica  wac,  when 
unpacked,  a  slender  young  man  with  a  slight,  black 
mustache   and   expensive    London    clothes.      He 


1 82  Privilege 

spoke  English  fluently,  and  only  in  his  wild,  dark 
eyes  and  in  the  curve  of  his  finely  chiseled  nostril 
was  there  a  hint  of  his  romantic  ancestry.  Monica 
was  vivid  as  ever  and  more  beautiful.  But  she 
seemed  older  and  her  verbal  stridency  was  muted. 
Perhaps  Putzi,  for  all  his  knowledge  of  English, 
found  much  of  her  slang  unintelligible,  so  that  she 
was  constrained  to  grammatic  convention  and, 
like  a  bird  in  a  cage,  drooped  a  little  in  the  matter 
of  song.  It  became  evident,  however,  that  the 
real  reason  of  her  mellowness  was  love.  She  was 
infatuated,  and  an  elaborate  assumption  of  impe- 
rious aloofness  towards  her  fiance  only  emphasized 
the  fact.  On  first  acquaintance  one  would  have 
said  that  Count  Koloszvary  suffered  the  extrava- 
gant indifference  of  his  mistress  with  the  humorous 
gratitude  proper  to  an  English  gentleman.  With 
greater  familiarity,  however,  one  realized  not  only 
that  Monica's  off -handedness  was  the  provocative 
bluff  of  the  girl  in  love,  but  that  Koloszvary,  be- 
hind his  submissive  courtesy,  bided  his  time.  Also 
it  struck  me  how  completely  he  put  her  from  his 
mind  when  not  in  her  company  and  when  engaged 
in  some  absorbing  occupation  or  discussion.  It  is 
not  difficult  to  feel  the  abstraction  in  the  mind  of 
another   man,    and   such   abstraction   is  usually 


A  House  Party  183 

noticeable  in  the  English  lover,  whose  lady  is  else- 
where. Not  so  with  Putzi.  He  had  a  time  for 
women  and  a  time  for  other  things.  I  suppose  it 
was  his  tradition.  So  we  witnessed  the  paradox 
of  a  young  woman,  heedless  and  selfish  in  her 
fiance  s  presence,  distraite  and  gentle  when  he  was 
not  there,  and  a  young  man  who  showed  quiet 
courtesy  to  her  waywardness  but,  in  her  absence, 
forgot  her  utterly.  By  the  end  of  their  visit  I  was 
not  sure  if  I  liked  Putzi  altogether ;  and  this  vague 
feeling  was  quite  apart  from  my  hatred  of  his 
cruelty,  which  he  showed  unmistakably  out  shoot- 
ing and  in  a  glimpse  I  had  of  his  treatment  of  his 
servant.  I  was  far  from  accepting  Mary's  cliche 
denunciation.  Besides  he  was  clearly  very  intelli- 
gent. But  we  are  accustomed  to  a  kindly  indo- 
lence that  cloaks  slow  but  fair-minded  energy,  and 
there  is  unfamiliarity  in  a  strenuous  intelligence 
that  cloaks  indolent  despotism. 

It  was  amusing  to  notice  the  clash  between 
Michael's  theory  of  aristocracy  and  that  of  his 
Hungarian  guest.  The  former  had,  I  suspect, 
cherished  great  expectations.  In  this  nobleman 
from  a  feudal  land  he  thought  to  find  a  kindred 
soul.  The  example  of  an  unspoilt  past  should 
inspire    his    own    fight    for    privilege.     But    the 


1 84  Privilege 

conceptions  were  so  different  as  almost  to  be 
opposed. 

"You  are  more  fortunate  than  we,"  said  Mi- 
chael after  dinner.  "At  least  you  are  given  credit 
for  tradition.  Here  we  are  judged  as  parasites, 
who  must  justify  our  existence.  And  yet  I  am 
convinced  that  my  tenants  are  happier  and  more 
prosperous  than  peasant  farmers." 

Putzi  showed  his  gleaming  teeth. 

' '  Our  people  are  savage, ' '  he  said.  ' '  They  know 
nothing." 

"But  you  are  educating  them?" 

"Indeed  not.    Why?" 

"  Why!  To  show  them  there  are  other  interests, 
wider  thoughts  than  drink  and  struggling  squalor." 

1 '  If  they  believed  that  they  would  work  less,  and 
my  revenues  would  fail." 

Michael  then  inquired  as  to  methods  of  agri- 
culture. What  had  always  been,  still  was.  But 
the  return  could  be  increased  and  the  labor  les- 
sened. Again  why?  Putzi  was  clearly  a  little 
bored.  He  could  give  no  figures  of  his  estate  popu- 
lation. He  knew  nothing  of  their  way  of  life. 
Social  Democrats  there  were  in  the  large  towns, 
pestilential  fellows  who  made  the  workers  dis- 
contented that  they  might  themselves  have  luxury. 


A  House  Party  185 

But  he  was  so  seldom  even  in  Budapest  that  their 
excesses  did  not  worry  him.  Michael  endeavored 
to  discover  what  proportion  of  his  guest's  land 
was  under  wheat  or  barley  or  maize,  the  extent 
of  the  vineyards,  the  numbers  of  livestock. 

"I  am  so  sorry!"  laughed  Putzi.  "I  will  tele- 
graph to  my  bailiff.    If  you  are  interested   .    .    .  " 

And  his  voice  trailed  off  into  faint  contempt  for 
the  preoccupations  of  this  English  lord.  On  the 
Riviera  and  in  Paris,  in  Vienna,  Wiesbaden,  and 
Petersburg  he  had  met  a  few  and  heard  tell  of 
many  English  noblemen.  Obscurely  again  he  had 
always  resented  a  little  their  curt  frivolity.  And 
now  that  he  was  to  marry  a  girl  from  this  very 
class  of  model  aristocrats,  he  found  her  brother 
half  politician,  half  farmer. 

I  have  ventured  to  interpret  Putzi's  thoughts, 
because  he  took  little  trouble  to  conceal  their 
drift.  At  the  same  time  he  was  impressed  with 
Michael  and,  despite  himself,  dominated  by  Bar- 
bara. He  spoke  of  her  to  me  once  with  wistful 
admiration. 

"Our  women  are  not  like  that,"  he  said.  "She 
is  so  er — normal.     Is  that  the  right  word?" 

And  I  assured  him  that  it  would  do  excellently. 

Mary,  after  one  encounter,  avoided  the  tyrant. 


1 86  Privilege 

In  a  day  or  two  I  had  recovered  from  the  shock 
of  her  dogmatic  dreariness.  I  realized  that  her 
novelty  was  not,  as  in  Monica's  case,  an  overlay 
of  some  fresh  experience.  She  had  developed  along 
the  lines  destined  for  her  and  it  was  prejudice  to 
mistake  for  perversity  what  was  only  normal  evo- 
lution. To  the  reflecting  eye  it  was  possible  to 
recognize  in  the  shape  of  the  chrysalis  we  used. to 
know,  the  moth  that  had  emerged  from  it.  I  do 
not  say  that  this  view  was  generally  accepted. 
Barbara,  for  example,  worried  for  some  while  over 
her  sister-in-law's  brusque  intransigeance ;  but  then, 
of  course,  she  had  no  criterion  for  understand- 
ing. Michael  would  not  stoop  either  to  condone 
or  to  condemn.  His  impatient  egotism  diagnosed 
Mary's  complaint  as  " Cambridge  swelled  head," 
and  it  was  manifestly  useless  to  draw  the  pos- 
sible parallel  between  his  own  riper  but  none 
the  less  assertive  fanaticism  and  that  of  his  sister. 
Anthony  found  Mary  funny  and  enjoyed  nagging 
her.  When  she  came  down  in  a  hat  covered  with 
small  feathers  and  brooding  like  a  sitting  hen  on 
the  very  top  of  her  unbecoming  coiffure,  he  clucked 
loudly  and  scratched  for  grain. 

The  arrival  of  Sloane  was  a  natural  pretext  for 
more  persecution.     He  was  a  lean,  bent  young 


A  House  Party  187 

man  with  a  pale,  gloomy  face.  Apparently  quite 
unembarrassed  by  his  presence  in  this  house  of 
strangers,  he  would  talk  to  Mary  at  meals  in  a 
loud,  dry  voice  on  subjects  that  were  evidently 
perennial.  Their  conversations  were  formless, 
like  installments  of  a  serial.  I  noticed  that  the 
habit  of  prefacing  remarks  with  silences  of  varying 
length  was  not  confined  to  intercourse  with  stran- 
gers. Anthony  and  Monica  gave  an  imitation  of 
the  method  one  afternoon.  The  text  was  based 
on  a  novel  by  a  young  Cambridge  genius,  which 
happened  to  be  among  the  week's  batch  from 
Smith's.     It  was  a  love  scene. 

Anthony:  I  suppose  you  know  I  find  you  stim- 
ulating. 

Monica:    Yes.     (Silence.) 

Anthony:     Stimulus  is — .     (Silence.) 

Monica:     Yes? 

Anthony:  Why,  after  all,  should  I  bother  you 
with  my  troubles? 

Monica:     I  am  interested.    Troubles  are  so 

Anthony:    Yes?     (Silence.) 

Monica:  If  you  could  understand  how  I  hate 
my  mother! 

Anthony:    She  is  doomed.     (Silence.) 

Monica:     I  must  think. 


1 88  Privilege 

Anthony:    You  are  rich,  I  hope? 

Monica:  Not  rich,  no.  Not  rich.  But  I  have 
something. 

Anthony:  I  have  only  my  flaming  heart  and 
the  cold  precision  of  my  brain. 

Monica:     More  brain ;  O  Lord,  more  brain. 

Anthony:    That's  been  said  before.   .    .    . 

Monica:    Repetition  is  nature's  impressionism. 

Anthony:    Two  and  two  make  four. 

Monica:    Need  they? 

Anthony:  It  depends.  Besides  it  rhymes;  I'm 
talking  blank  verse  mathematics.     {Silence.) 

Monica:    You  are  in  need  of  money? 

Anthony:    Yes.     {Silence.) 

By  this  time  the  caste  and  the  audience  (Barbara 
and  I)  were  losing  our  gravity.  The  door  opened 
and  Sloane's  peering  face  showed  itself.  He  stared 
foggily  at  the  four  of  us. 

"Are  you  looking  for  Mary?"  asked  Barbara 
kindly. 

"No,"  he  replied  and  continued  to  gaze  about 
the  room.  There  was  one  of  the  famous  silences. 
Then: 

"I  am  looking  for  my  boots,"  he  said.  Another 
period  of  silent  inspection.  ' '  But  they  do  not  seem 
to  be  in  here." 


A  House  Party  189 

The  door  closed.    We  broke  down  entirely  and 
the  play  ended. 


For  all  its  heterogenity,  the  party  enjoyed  itself. 
Indeed  the  clash  of  personalities  set  up  a  discord 
that  was  more  heartening  than  repellent.  It  was 
good  hunting  weather;  the  food  was  excellent. 
Barbara  had  a  talent  for  self-effacing  hospitality. 
She  was  like  an  electric  radiator,  that  heats  with- 
out show  or  noise.  Even  Mary  and  Sloane  melted 
to  her  warmth.  Indeed,  after  a  scene  with  Mi- 
chael over  church-going,  Mary  became  almost  kit- 
tenish, and  her  dancing  in  the  parody  pantomime 
we  extemporized  on  New  Year's  Eve  put  her  fellow 
chorus  girls  to  shame.  We  tried  to  persuade 
Michael  to  play  Mephistopheles,  but  he  took  ref- 
uge behind  the  duties  of  host  which  kept  him  at 
Shrivenham's  side.  I  think  Putzi  was  rather 
shocked  at  Monica's  "Aladdin,"  but  he  was  plied 
with  Pommery  before  the  show  and  became  too 
intent  on  managing  his  own  legs  to  trouble  unduly 
about  hers.  Dolly  Easterham  played  principal 
girl  with  such  verve  that  Shrivenham  applauded 
loudly  and  drank  her  health  with  special  emphasis 
as  the  new  year  ticked  into  being.     She  was  an 


190  Privilege 

intriguing  little  soul,  pink  and  powdered,  with  fair, 
fluffy  hair.  Her  method  was  babyish  candor  and 
she  did  it  well,  although  others  before  her  have 
discovered  what  point  is  given  by  innocence  to 
worldly  wisdom.  She  played  Monica  a  trick  that 
caused  an  hour  of  comical  tension.  Finding  a  lay- 
figure  in  a  large  attic  once  used  as  a  studio,  she 
dressed  it  in  Putzi's  dressing-gown,  and  put  it  in 
Monica's  room.  Then  she  rang  the  bell  in  her 
own  room  and  sent  the  maid  to  borrow  some 
powder  from  Miss  Braden's  dressing-table.  This 
happened  about  ten  o'clock  and  dancing  was  due 
to  start  in  half  an  hour.  Unluckily,  as  the  girl 
was  retreating  in  embarrassment  from  a  seemingly 
occupied  bedroom,  Monica  herself  came  along  the 
corridor.  So  the  fat  was  in  the  fire.  Putzi  talked 
of  shooting  Easterham  through  the  head  at  five 
o'clock  next  morning.  Doubtless  it  was  the  least 
he  could  do,  for  Monica  was  furious  and  cursed 
Dolly  publicly  for  a  filthy  little  meddler!  Poor 
old  Easterham  was  very  engaging. 

"Damn  it,  Whern,"  he  grumbled.  "I  can't  go 
gadding  about  the  park  at  five  o'clock!  It's  not 
light!  And  I  never  get  up  till  eight-thirty. 
Never." 

I  took  Monica  aside. 


A  House  Party  191 

"You  must  calm  Putzi,"  I  said.  "He'll  start  a 
massacre  for  two  pence." 

She  had  not  understood  that  her  fiance  a  threat 
had  gone  abroad.  Dignity  was  never  so  strong  a 
point  with  her  as  humor,  and  she  forgot  her  own 
grievance  in  the  delight  of  the  new  situation. 

"And  he  is  really  challenging  Charlie?  How 
perfect!  What  a  paladin!  I  shall  tire  my  hair 
and  give  him  a  love-knot  and  watch  the  tourney 
from  a  turret  window." 

"It  will  be  dark,"  I  objected. 

"Then  they  must  alter  the  time.  Just  after 
breakfast  is  comfortable." 

Charlie  Easterham  lumbered  towards  us. 

"Look  here,  Monica,  for  God's  sake  tell  Kolosz- 
vary  to  chuck  it.  I'm  beastly  sorry  Dolly  an- 
noyed you  but,  upon  my  word,  to  go  creepin' 
about  in  the  long  grass  like  a  comic  brigand  with 
a  pop  gun   .    .    .    !" 

Monica  assumed  an  air  of  injured  haughtiness. 

"My  honor,  Charles  ..."  she  said. 
'Damn  your  honor! — No! — I'm  beastly  sorry. 
Clumsy  of  me.  I  mean — I  quite  understand. 
But  really — Braden — "  he  turned  to  me,  "do  say 
somethin'.  It's  .  .  .  it's  absurd!  We  don't  do 
these  things.    Jolly  old  middle  ages  and  all  that, 


192  Privilege 

of  course,  but    .     .     .      Look  here,  will  it  do  if  1 
give  Dolly  a  good  leatherin'  with  a  slipper?" 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us  with  sud- 
den hope.  Monica  jumped  at  a  new  extrava- 
gance. "Agreed!"  she  cried.  "But  I  must  be 
there." 

Poor  Charles  stared  in  dismay.  This  was  worse 
than  ever. 

"Must  you  now?"  he  asked  feebly. 

I  laughed  so  uncontrollably  that  Monica's  mouth 
began  to  twitch.  Easterham  was  scratching  his 
head  and  staring  at  the  floor.  Dolly  floated  into 
the  room. 

"Monica  darling,"  she  cooed.  "I'm  so  miser- 
able! Oh,  there  is  Charlie  after  all.  I  heard  he  was 
dead.  That  terrible  fierce  man  of  yours  shot  him. 
Charlie — do  you  know  me?"  She  wound  her  arms 
round  her  husband's  short  square  body  and  hid 
her  face  on  his  shoulder.    He  jerked  himself  free. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  said  gruffly.  "One's 
enough,  and  you've  made  me  look  a  fairly  big  one." 

She  stood  with  her  hands  clasped  demurely  be- 
fore her,  questioning  us  with  her  great  baby  eyes. 
I  laughed  more  than  ever  and  Monica  finally 

gave  way. 

"You  idiotic  angel,"  she  cried,  and  took  Dolly 


A  House  Party  193 

in  her  arms.     "They  shan't  shoot  your  stupid, 

great  husband.    There,  there   ..." 

Putzi,    when    informed    of    the    reconciliation, 

shrugged  his  shoulders  unconcernedly. 

"Very  well,"  he  said. 
13 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  TENTH  COMMANDMENT 


The  Christmas  weather  remained  soft  and 
purple  brown.  Along  the  forest  drives  the  brown 
leaves  lay  damply,  and  between  one  field  and  an- 
other the  little  trees  spread  their  knotted  and 
purple  fingers  against  a  brooding  sky.  The  hunt- 
ing continued  excellent  and  I  came  to  know  once 
more  as  an  event  of  normal  life  that  delicious 
jumble  of  tea  and  muffins  and  whisky,  taken  all 
mud-spattered  as  we  were,  in  a  long  room  quietly 
lit  with,  at  the  far  end,  flames  laughing  and  leap- 
ing, the  echoes  of  their  merriment  sounding  from 
every  polished  surface  of  the  quiet  luxurious  fur- 
niture. Not  for  long  had  I  been  barred  from  this 
life  of  strenuous  idleness,  but  my  exile  had  not  been 
so  short  that  I  failed  to  recognize  good  fortune 
now  it  had  come  my  way.  I  tried  my  moralizing 
on  Monica  one  afternoon,  as  we  jogged  home  side 

194 


The  Tenth  Commandment      195 

by  side  from  a  six-mile  point  and  a  kill  far  down 
the  valley  to  the  east. 

"I  wonder  whether  this  is  the  kind  of  life  you'll 
have  in  Hungary.  Somehow  one  pictures  it  as 
more  savage,  less  scrupulously  planned." 

"Haven't  the  foggiest,"  replied  Monica  briefly. 
Then,  after  a  short  silence,  "Do  you  like  Putzi, 
Dick?" 

"Of  course,"  I  said. 

"What  a  kindly  old  donkey  you  are!"  she 
laughed.     "Why  of  course?" 

I  reflected.     Why,  indeed? 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said  frankly.    "Anyway  I  do." 

"Are  you  scared  of  him?" 

"Not  in  the  least.     Ought  I  to  be?" 

"Idiot.  No — but  it  is  your  saying  that  about 
sport  out  there.  ...  I'm  fascinated  by  him, 
as  I  daresay  you've  noticed." 

She  flashed  an  impudent  glance  from  under  the 
rim  of  her  regulation  hat.  It  was  so  like  Monica 
to  forestall  criticism  in  this  way  that  I  was  quite 
ready  for  her. 

"I  have,"  I  said.  "It  reminds  me  of  the  bow 
of  Ulysses." 

"I  never  bend,  Dick,"  said  Monica.    "I  break." 

I  laughed. 


196  Privilege 

"Wait  and  see,"  I  replied.  "This  wedding  is 
quite  near  now.    What  about  religion?" 

"Putzi's  arranging  it.  I'm  turning  into  some- 
thing very  decorative  and  unbosoming.  My  con- 
fessional will  be  hot  stuff,  won't  it?  A  long  one 
with  a  slice  of  lemon,  as  Harold  would  have  said." 
She  raced  off  down  this  sudden  avenue  of  side- 
argument.  "Tell  me  about  Harold.  I've  been 
meaning  to  ask  you,  but  kept  forgetting.  And 
you're  the  only  one  who'll  tell  me.  Michael  would 
be  annoyed,  and  then  the  ice  would  melt  and  spoil 
his  profile.  Tony's  too  young.  Mary— I  almost 
said  too  old!  What  has  come  over  the  child? 
She's " 

"Please!  We  were  about  to  discuss  Harold. 
Which  is  it  to  be?" 

"Sorry!  Harold,  of  course.  What  exactly 
happened?" 

I  told  her.  When  I  had  finished  she  laughed; 
laughed  quite  a  lot. 

' '  Monica !  you  ought  to  be  shocked  and  grieved !" 

"I  am,  Dickie.  Inside  I'm  all  blush.  I  keep 
it  off  the  bits  that  show  because  of  the  color  my 
hair  is.  All  the  same  you'll  admit  there's  a  drollery 
in  trying  to  run  an  Agapemone  in  a  kind  of  ecclesi- 
astical bird  cage.     Like  the  girl  who  wore  open- 


The  Tenth  Commandment     197 

work  stockings  and  felt  cold  in  patterns.  Besides, 
the  poor  old  chap  'reformed,'  didn't  he?  — at  the 
end?" 

'You're  rather  a  dear,  Monica.  I  wish  you'd 
been  here.  Somehow  I  felt  sorry  for  Harold,  but 
as  no  one  else  did  I  supposed  it  was  moral  weakness 
on  my  part,  or  worse,  and  choked  it  down.  Also 
he  pulled  Anthony  through.  The  boy  was  in  bad 
company  and  getting  a  little  revolting.  Harold 
took  him  in  hand,  like  a  recalcitrant  puppy,  and 
figuratively  thrashed  him  into  usefulness.  He  now 
talks  of  soldiering." 

"Yes,  he  told  me  the  other  night  he  was  off  to 
Oxford.  We  seem  to  be  pulling  our  relations  to 
pieces.    Next,  please.    What  about  Mrs.  Michael?" 

"Well,"  I  said  smoothly,  "what  about  her?" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  wrist  (our  mounts  were 
walking  now,  slowly  and  close  together)  and, 
throwing  back  her  head,  looked  at  me  under 
drooping  lids.     I  felt  a  sudden  uneasiness. 

"What  about  her?"  I  repeated,  as  Monica  did 
not  speak. 

"I  wish  I  weren't  going  abroad  in  February," 
she  replied. 

The  inconsequence  was  mere  whimsicality.  I 
guessed  the  connecting  link  and  she  knew  that  I 


i98  Privilege 

guessed  it.  We  had  too  often  talked  shorthand  not 
to  recognize  the  significance  of  abbreviated  argu- 
ment. Nevertheless,  her  ultimate  meaning  was 
ambiguous.    I  decided  to  fence. 

"Don't  worry,"  I  said. 

She  removed  her  hand  from  my  arm  and,  with  a 
vague  gesture,  made  as  if  to  brush  aside  my 
implication. 

"It  isn't  that,"  she  muttered.  "Besides,"  and 
her  voice  took  on  a  note  of  mockery,  "I  may 
regret  as  a  spectator  manquee.  I  was  an  amateur 
of — that  sort  of  thing — once.  .  .  . "  She  fell 
suddenly  silent  and  for  a  while  we  went  forward 
without  speaking.  Looking  at  her  I  saw  she  was 
brooding  heavily,  gazing  into  the  gathering  dusk 
with  absent  gravity. 

' '  It  isn't  that, ' '  she  repeated, ' 'although  I  suppose 
it  ought  to  be.    It's  Mary." 

"Mary?" 

"Yes.  I  can't  tell  you  why,  Dick.  Perhaps  it's 
all  rubbish.    Only  do  take  care.    Promise  me." 

' '  How — take  care  ? ' ' 

"Just  like  that.  And — when  does  she  go  back 
to  Cambridge?" 

"Not  for  some  little  while,  I  believe.  But 
really,  Monica,  be  at  least  logical.    What  earth- 


The  Tenth  Commandment      199 

ly  connection    has   Mary   with — well,   with   the 
other?" 

"She  hates  her,  that  is  all.  I'm  cold.  Let's 
get  on." 

And  she  urged  her  tired  horse  to  a  last  canter, 
over  the  crest  of  the  woods  and  down  towards 
Whern.  As  I  thudded  by  her  side,  I  outlived  the 
first  impulse  of  regret  that  our  conversation  was 
ended.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  enough  had  been 
said. 

At  any  rate,  and,  naturally,  I  began  to  pay 
attention  to  the  mutual  demeanor  of  Mary  and 
her  sister-in-law.  I  found  that  the  former's  delib- 
erate aggressiveness  had  given  place  to  a  surface 
amiability  that,  from  close  range,  carried  no  con- 
viction of  depth.  Monica  had  taught  me  to  look 
closely  and  I  convinced  myself  that,  to  a  point, 
she  was  right  in  her  suspicion  of  hostility.  But 
clearly  the  matter  was  not  a  simple  case  of  jealous 
hatred.  There  was  something  more  fundamental 
in  what  was,  I  began  to  see,  a  reciprocal  antagon- 
ism. Assuming  Barbara's  dislike  of  Mary  was  the 
normal  resentment  of  one  who  knows  herself  dis- 
liked, I  concentrated  on  Mary  and  watched  devel- 
opments closely.  They  were  in  the  main  logical. 
Although  at  first  Mary's  provocative  angularity 


200  Privilege 

was  certainly  half  shyness,  there  was  in  it  an  ele- 
ment of  cold  roguery  that  enjoyed  the  discomfort 
it  could  not  but  share.  There  was  something  of 
the  twentieth  century  Pierrot  in  Mary,  a  scien- 
tific, Wellsian  Pierrot  whose  waywardness  was  ad- 
justed by  calculation,  whose  erratic  selfishness  had 
a  basis  of  obscure  but  pitiless  philosophy.  Bar- 
bara's first  reaction  was  disappointing.  She  was 
conciliatory,  forbearingly  courteous.  This  dis- 
pelled her  antagonist's  gaucherie,  while  intensifying 
the  will  to  wound.  Extremists  are  always  better 
friends  with  each  other  than  with  moderates  and 
had  Barbara  at  the  outset  resented  Mary  as  an 
insolent  declassee,  the  latter  would  have  been 
greatly  flattered  and  would  have  respected  and 
almost  liked  her  sister-in-law  for  conforming  to  a 
preconceived  notion  of  her  type.  As  it  was  she 
was  driven  to  further  goading,  and  further  yet  in  her 
desire  to  produce  at  least  some  fragment  of  result. 
A  headache  helped.  Mary  spent  the  day  in 
Rodbury  (she  commandeered  a  car  both  ways), 
and,  as  I  gathered  afterwards,  in  the  company  of 
her  political  friends.  She  tackled  Barbara  before 
dinner,  at  an  hour  when  several  of  us  were  hanging 
about  the  library  fire,  loath  to  go  up  to  dress,  and 
yet  restless  with  appetite  and  over-smoking. 


The  Tenth  Commandment     201 

"I  hear  you  are  going  to  build  a  garden  city, 
Barbara." 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  asked  Barbara, 
who  was  tired  and  inclined  to  neuralgia. 

"What  I  say,  Lady  Bountiful.  Verney  tells  me 
you  are  to  house  the  ejected  from  those  slums  of 
yours  in  a  model  village  on  the  estate." 

"I  never  heard  such  rubbish.  I'm  not  going  to 
do  anything  of  the  sort." 

"So  Michael  put  his  noble  foot  on  the  scheme?" 
Mary  could  sneer  with  the  best  of  them. 

"You  are  discussing  my  feet,  Mary?"  said  a 
voice.  Michael,  noiseless  as  ever,  loomed  from  the 
shadows  of  the  hall.  He  resembled  a  lithe,  pale 
cat  in  this  great,  carpeted  house,  as  he  moved 
smoothly  and  rapidly  from  place  to  place. 

"I  was  merely  congratulating  Barbara  on  an 
intended  philanthropy.  And  now  she  denies  it. 
I  thought  perhaps  you  did  not  approve." 

Michael  glanced  at  his  wife  who  neither  moved 
nor  spoke.  Then,  characteristically,  he  quietly 
changed  the  subject. 

' '  Lot  of  trees  down  in  Far  Side  Wood  with  the 
gale." 

As  the  conversation  ran  smoothly  from  the  eddy 
of  embarrassment  over  the  shallows  of  local  hap- 


202  Privilege 

pening,  I  saw  behind  the  mask  of  Mary's  stubborn 
quietude  a  smolder  of  anger.  Her  first  attempt  to 
embroil  her  brother  with  his  wife  had  failed.  A 
few  minutes  later  there  was  a  move  to  dress.  I 
mounted  the  stairs  at  Mary's  side. 

1 '  You  asked  for  it, "  I  said  unnecessarily.  ' '  But 
why  unlearn  lessons  that  you  know  by  breeding? 
As  if  Michael  would  rise  under  any  circumstances 
at  all  with  others  there." 

"Mind  your  own  business  Richard,"  she  said 
crossly.     "I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

I  chuckled. 

"Merely  that  you  are  rather  an  ass,  dear  child." 

And  at  the  stairhead  I  turned  towards  my  room. 

I  paid  for  my  interference.  And  Barbara. 
Relations  between  her  and  Mary  continued 
strained.  Neither  said  anything,  but  it  was  clear 
that  the  temperaments  clashed  badly.  Michael 
made  no  reference  whatever  to  the  little  scene  I 
have  just  described.  One  by  one  the  guests  de- 
parted. There  came  a  day  when  only  he,  Anthony, 
Barbara,  Mary,  and  I  remained.  Why  Mary 
stayed,  God  knows.  Revenge  perhaps;  but  more 
probably  simply  from  an  instinctive  cussedness  or 
doggedness.    Anyway  it  led  to  trouble. 


The  Tenth  Commandment     203 

At  this  time  the  fever  that  ran  in  me  for  what 
was  forbidden  fruit  raged  and  cooled  with  dis- 
turbing suddenness.  For  days  I  would  be  normal; 
then  the  desire  would  seize  me  and  I  could  not 
speak  or  even  be  near  to  her  without  my  very 
being  changing  with  uncanny  completeness  into 
that  of  a  stranger.  By  sheer  will  I  kept  my  eyes 
away  from  her  until  such  time  as  I  could  decently 
withdraw  and  conquer  the  devil  in  solitude.  One 
such  seizure  occurred  during  a  bridge  game  on  the 
night  before  Michael  and  Barbara  were  due  to 
leave  for  town.  She  was  my  partner  against 
Michael  and  Anthony.  Mary  was  in  the  library 
working  for  her  tripos.  I  began  to  play  with 
hysterical  stupidity. 

"But  you  took  me  up,  Dick!"  cried  Barbara 
plaintively,  when  I  passed  Anthony's  knave  on  a 
second  round. 

The  cards  swam  before  my  eyes.  Her  voice  was 
loud  with  divine  music.  I  felt  that  the  stretch  of 
green  table  was  the  grassy  edge  of  the  world 
beyond  which  were  magic  seas  and,  rising  from 
them,  this  goddess  clothed  in  passionate  humanity. 

"Awfully  sorry,"  I  muttered.  ;,I  mistook  the 
ace.    Thought  it  was  a  diamond." 

The  rubber  ended  with  calamity.     Being  the 


204  Privilege 

last  of  the  series  debts  were  settled.  I  pushed 
Michael  his  winnings  and  rose  unsteadily. 

"Feel  queerish,"  I  said.     "Must  be  the  port." 

On  a  couch  in  a  curtained  recess  of  the  octagon 
I  tried  to  envisage  the  climax  of  this  series  of  love 
agues.  There  could  only  be  one  outcome  and  that 
was  impossible.  I  must  go  away.  I  must  find  a 
reason  for  leaving  Whern,  return  to  rooms  and 
solitary  bibliography  in  London.  The  prospect 
was  unbearable;  I  must  go  abroad.  With  my  head 
on  my  hands  I  forced  a  staggering  brain  along  the 
road  of  prevision.  Unheard,  the  curtains  parted 
and  she  stood  by  my  side. 

"Dick,  dear,  are  you  ill?" 

Miraculously  my  brain  cleared.  I  felt  restored 
and  calm.  The  quiet  flippancy  of  my  manner 
startled  her. 

"Cured  again.  I  knew  it  was  the  port.  Sit 
down,  Barbara;  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Why  this  odd  spot?  We  might  be  sitting  out 
and  making  love  to  each  other." 

"It's  a  good  place  for  that.  I  never  thought  of 
it.  But  for  the  moment,  matters  of  less  import. 
You  go  to  town  to-morrow?" 

She  nodded. 

"For  how  long?" 


The  Tenth  Commandment     205 

"A  month,  I  should  think.  Michael  has  folks 
to  work  off,  and  I  want  some  clothes.  Also  there 
are  dances  and  other  orgies.  And  Monica's 
wedding.  I  don't  think  I  shall  come  here  again 
till  after  that." 

"When  you  do,"  I  said  casually,  "I  shall  be 
gone." 

"Gone!" 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  Spain  or  Italy  or — or — 
somewhere." 

A  strange  giddiness  rocked  me  to  this  an ti -climax 
of  indecision.  My  control  lurched,  and  I  felt  as 
though  I  stood  on  a  snow-slope  that  was  stirring 
uneasily  for  an  avalanche.  With  an  effort  of  will 
I  leapt,  as  it  were,  to  an  emergent  rock. 

"Even  agents  have  holidays,"  I  said  cheerfully. 

"You  are  tired  of  Whern?  No  wonder.  It's 
been  a  heavy  autumn  and  dull  for  you.  But  when 
are  you  off?" 

In  that  moment  I  took  a  sudden  decision. 

"Look  here,  Barbara;  let's  get  to  facts.  The 
truth  is  I  am — I  am — What  shall  I  say?  I  am 
wanting  more  of  you  than  I  ought.    .    .    .  " 

"Of  me?"  She  looked  at  me  steadily.  Then, 
quietly — ' '  I  understand . ' ' 

Still  gazing  into  my  eyes,  she  played  absently 


206  Privilege 

with  her  bracelet.  The  silence  became  material, 
a  silence  of  draped  velvet.  The  curtains  of  the 
alcove  multipled  and  curved  in  nightmare  folds 
over  our  heads.  More  and  more  folds  of  stifling 
crimson  velvet,  drooping  lower  and  lower. 
Through  the  heaviness  of  suffocation  her  eyes,  like 
windows  to  distant  sunlight,  contracted,  dilated, 
contracted  once  again. 

"Listen,"  she  said  suddenly,  and  in  the  cool 
breeze  of  her  voice  the  fog  of  oppression  swayed 
and  dispersed.  "You  are  going  away,  because  you 
are  afraid — not  of  your  own  self-control,  not  of 
your  own  happiness — but  of  my  honor.  You  im- 
agine things,  and  then  the  fit  passes  and  you  feel 
I  have  been  smirched.    Is  that  right?" 

I  nodded. 

"It  has  not  occurred  to  you — at  least  so  I 
believe — to  wonder  how  much  I  know  or  feel  or — 
or — share  of  this  obsession.  .  .  .  That  is  you. 
You  and  Michael  and  Anthony  and  all  of  you. 
You  are  so  critical  of  yourselves;  so  humble  at 
heart,  so  proud  externally.   .    .    . " 

I  made  to  speak.  She  silenced  me  with  a  quick 
movement. 

"Let  me  go  on.  I  am  trying  to  get  into  words 
my  experience  of  these  months  among  you  all." 


The  Tenth  Commandment     207 

She  paused  to  collect  the  threads  of  her  argument. 
1 '  So  critical — too  critical — of  yourselves.  It  makes 
you  egotistical,  and  the  world  says  you  are  arro- 
gant. Remember  that  I  am  more  or  less  plebeian 
in  comparison.  I  can  see  you — you  pedigree 
people — from  the  outside.  And  because  I  love  all 
that  you  stand  for,  all  that  you  really  are,  it 
grieves  me  to  see  you  betrayed  by  your  own  fine- 
ness. Can  you  not  be  less  searchingly  upright? 
You  could  save  all  this  quiet  beauty,  from  what 
is  inevitable  destruction,  if  you  were  to  assert 
yourselves  a  little.   .    .    .  " 

I  moved  impatiently.  Social  prophecy  always 
bored  me  and  at  this  moment —  She  smiled  and 
bent  forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees.  Her  round 
forearm  and  the  strong  perfection  of  her  hands 
lay  forward  over  the  dark  carpet.  Fascinated  I 
watched  their  whiteness,  until  they  seemed  to  fade 
to  transparency  and  through  a  creamy  film  to 
show  the  deep  red  of  the  rug  below. 

"I  am  wandering.  Forgive  me.  You  and  me. 
Bluntly,  you  are  fancying  that  you  love  me. 
You " 

"No!"  I  interrupted.  "Be  fair.  There  is  no 
fancy.  I  am  falling  into  love  with  you  and,  be- 
cause I  am  as  selfish  as  you  say,  I  am  running 


208  Privilege 

away  for  my  own  sake.  The  strain  is — oh — 
rotten.   .    .    ." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  challenge  your  conviction, 
my  dear.  Only  that  'love'  is  so  composite  a  thing, 
And  I  doubt  if  you  have  all  the  elements." 

Probably  she  saw  in  my  eyes  how  this  affected 
cynicism  wounded  me,  for  her  tone  suddenly 
altered.  She  leant  towards  me  and  laid  her  hand 
on  my  arm. 

"Dick!  Forgive  me,  dear.  I  am  serious.  What 
I  mean  is  that,  for  some,  desire  is  all,  but  for  you, 
and  for  those  of  your  quality,  it  is  only  a  little 
part.  Do  not  betray  your  tradition.  I  have 
enough  of  my  own  to  value  that  of  others,  even 
though  it  be  finer  and  longer.  Besides — I  have 
had  my  experience.  .  .  . "  With  a  quick  gesture 
she  swept  the  low  hair  from  her  forehead  and  stood 
up.  ' ' Do  you  imagine,  Dick,"  she  went  on,  looking 
down  at  me,  "do  you  imagine  that  I  value  the  honor 
of  this,  or  this,  or  this" — with  fluttering  hands 
she  touched  her  neck,  breast,  and  arms — "above 
Michael's  happiness  or  yours  ?  And  now  you  see 
in  them  your  contentment.  But  only  in  them.  If 
I  were  ugly  or  crippled.  .  .  .  No,  don't  pro- 
test !  Without  this  body,  I  should  be  meaningless. 
A  'decent  sort,'  perhaps.     It's  not  good  enough, 


The  Tenth  Commandment     209 

Dick.  I  am  here  to  serve  Whern — but  there  are 
limits.   .    .    . " 

Her  voice  broke  and  she  turned  quickly  away. 
With  hands  tightly  clasped  she  stood  silent.  I 
shook  off  the  lethargy  that  held  me  to  my  seat. 

"Barbara!"  I  grasped  her  shoulder  and  turned 
her  roughly  in  my  direction.  "What  are  you  say- 
ing ?  What  have  I  done  to  all  of  us  ?  Forget  that 
anything  has  been  said.  I  will  go  and  it  will  pass 
with  me  and  be  forgotten.  Or  let  Michael  shoot 
me.  In  the  good  old  days  he  would  have  me  shot. 
Let  us  go  and  tell  him  so  that  he  may  see  the  kind 
of  brother  he  has  housed.  And  the  reading  of  me 
is  so  hideously  true.   .    .    ." 

So  great  was  the  turmoil  of  my  shame  that  I 
did  not  immediately  realize  she  was  now  closely 
facing  me  or  that  her  hands  were  on  my  shoulders. 
Then  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and 
from  the  peak  of  self -hatred  I  swooped  to  a  sudden 
smooth  excitement.  Her  voice  had  a  new  thrill 
when  she  said  softly. 

"Don't  you  see,  Dick?  It  is  Michael.  He  is  so 
pitiful;  so  pitifully  alone.     And  then " 

"No  more,  dearest — please!" 

Her  face  was  now  close  to  mine.  Her  breath 
became  the  very  air  in  my  nostrils. 


210  Privilege 

"Only  this,"  she  whispered.  "That  it  is  not 
enough  to  be  desired — by  you" 

With  the  first  touch  of  her  lips  on  mine  reality 
faded  behind  closed  lids.  It  seemed  that  a  full 
minute  passed.  Then,  simultaneously,  she  started 
away,  a  slight  noise  splintered  heaven  as  a  stone 
splinters  glass,  and  I  opened  my  eyes  on  the  figure 
of  Mary  framed  in  the  parted  curtains  and  looking 
at  us  with  silent  triumph. 

I  like  to  think  that  we  behaved  with  dignity, 
even  in  that  moment  of  shameful  disaster.  A 
cynic  would  say  that  dignity  is  the  only  solution 
of  the  insoluble,  and  certainly  there  was  no  remedy, 
no  possible  explanation.  All  the  same  we  kept 
our  heads. 

"Come  and  sit  down,  Mary,"  I  said  quietly. 
"We  might  as  well  put  you  aufait  with  the  earlier 
part  of  our  conversation." 

She  said  nothing;  merely  passed  through  the 
curtains,  which  fell  to  behind  her,  and  seated  her- 
self stiffly.  Barbara,  who  had  drawn  back  against 
the  wall  at  the  first  sight  of  the  intruder,  slipped 
into  one  corner  of  the  settee  as  Mary  approached, 
and  was  now  motionless.    I  remained  standing. 

"I  was  telling  Barbara,"  I  began,  "that " 


The  Tenth  Commanament     211 

"Dick,"  she  interrupted  coldly,  "I  prefer  there 
should  be  no  further  explanation." 

"I  agree  it  is  unnecessary,"  said  Mary  sharply. 

"Unnecessary  to  whom,  please,  Mary?"  asked 
Barbara. 

"To  me,  at  this  moment.  Later  to — whomso- 
ever I  may  tell." 

Barbara  smiled  bitterly. 

"Delightful!    Let  us  make  a  list." 

"Again  unnecessary.  I  have  the  details  in  my 
head." 

Rising  to  her  feet,  Barbara  turned  to  me. 

"We  are  detaining  your  sister,  Dick,  and  risk- 
ing absurdity.  You  will  forgive  my  leaving 
you?" 

And  she  was  through  the  curtains  and  vanished 
before  I  had  time  to  move  or  speak.  I  heard  her 
footsteps  clacking  coldly  across  the  marble  floor 
of  the  hall.    Then  I  turned  to  Mary. 

' '  Well  ?    What  do  you  expect  will  happen  now  ?" 

Mary,  to  my  surprise,  stood  up  and  faced  me 
squarely.  Her  attitude  was  not  unlike  that  of 
Barbara  five  minutes  ago.  Inwardly  I  chuckled 
at  the  humor  of  externals.  The  thing  became  fan- 
tastic, for  she  put  her  hand  on  my  shoulder.  But 
after  that  there  was  no  cause  for  chuckling,  for, 


212  Privilege 

bowing  her  head  against  my  coat,  she  burst  into 
tears. 

"Oh,  Dick!"  she  sobbed.  "That  it  should  be 
you.  What  am  I  to  do ?  What  am  I  to  do?  Dick, 
Dick !    Forgive  me ! ' ' 

At  once  astounded  and  embarrassed,  I  could 
only  stroke  her  shoulder  with  clumsy  tenderness. 
For  a  moment  she  clung  to  me,  trembling  with 
silent  grief.  Then,  raising  her  head  and  looking 
at  me  unashamedly  through  her  tears,  she  chal- 
lenged me: 

"Dick!  If  I  say  nothing — nothing,  mind  you — 
will  you  leave  Whern  at  once  and  for  good?" 

I  suppose  my  sympathies  were  dulled  with  the 
emotions  of  the  last  few  minutes.  Cruelly  and 
foolishly,  I  ignored  Mary  as  Mary,  and  replied  to 
a  girl  of  my  own  world  who  had  hinted  at  the 
possibility  of  betrayal. 

"I  do  not  pay  blackmail,"  I  replied,  and  turned 
to  leave  her.  But  as  I  drew  the  curtain  aside 
Barbara  walked  firmly  into  the  alcove  and  faced 
the  two  of  us. 

"Still  here,  Mary?  When  does  your  round  of 
information  begin?  It  will  save  you  trouble  to 
omit  my  husband.  He  knows  already.  I  have 
just  told  him." 


The  Tenth  Commandment     213 

"Barbara!" 

She  smiled  at  me  with  a  possessive  triumph 
that  was  disconcerting.  She  had  the  recklessness 
of  a  conspirator  revealed,  and  her  defiance  to  Mary 
was  patently  contrasted  with  tenderness  to  me. 
My  hypermoderation  shrank  from  the  conse- 
quences of  my  own  folly,  and  I  blamed  myself 
bitterly  for  having  rejected  what  I  now  recognized 
for  generosity  in  Mary.  I  had  spurned  her  moral- 
ity as  prudery;  now,  faced  with  the  converse, 
with  an  apparent  exultation  in  wrongdoing,  I  was 
equally  repelled. 

Mary  received  Barbara's  announcement  with 
outward  calm. 

"In  that  case,"  she  said,  "the  affair  is  ended. 
I  am  glad  that  I  am  relieved  of  any  direct  inter- 
position." 

And  she  left  us. 

"You  told  Michael?''  I  broke  out.  "And  what 
did  he  say?" 

As  I  spoke,  I  saw  that  her  defiance  was  broken. 
Like  a  sumptuous  flower  that  has  begun  to  wilt, 
she  drooped  against  the  wall.  Her  fine  strong 
hands  were  pressed  in  anguish  to  her  forehead. 
But  there  was  no  hint  of  tears.  When  she  spoke 
it  was  in  a  voice  dry  and  tired. 


214  Privilege 

"That  is  the  tragedy,  Dick.  He  said  nothing. 
At  first  he  laughed  and  said  you  were  always  a 
man  of  taste.  But  I  implored  him  to  be  serious. 
It  was  true,  I  told  him,  true,  true!  And  he  sat 
and  looked  at  me  with  a  sort  of  wounded  aston- 
ishment— like  an  animal — suddenly  lashed  by  a 
kind  owner — and  then — then  leant  wearily  on  his 
hand  and — I  felt  as  though  he  had  gone  out  of 
the  room." 

"God  forgive  me,"  I  whispered. 

For  a  few  seconds  we  stood  silently  appalled  at 
the  disaster  we  had  so  fortuitously  provoked.  I 
pulled  myself  together. 

"Sweetheart,"  I  said,  "Mary  offered  her  silence 
in  exchange  for  my  departure.  I  refused,  because 
I  am  rather  proud  of  loving  you  and  dizzily  ex- 
cited at  your  loving  me.  But  I  must  clear  out. 
When  you  come  back  from  town  I  shall  be  gone — 
for  that  foreign  holiday  we  discussed  a  while  ago ! ' ' 

She  looked  at  me,  her  somber  eyes  dark  with 
perplexity. 

' '  Leave  me  ?  Dick,  no !  I  cannot  be  left !  What 
do  you  want  of  me?  Take  it!  Take  it  and  spoil 
it,  but  do  not  put  it  aside " 

"But  Michael—?"  I  began. 

She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  tortured  hands. 


The  Tenth  Commandment     215 


<(  - 


'Poor  Michael!  How  cruel  a  choice  to  kill  or 
to  die  oneself!"  Then  with  a  sudden  gesture  of 
despairing  determination:  "I  will  stay — if  he 
wants  me.    You  shall  go — if  you  want  to.   .    .    ." 

My  resolution  wavered. 

1 '  Want  to  ?  It  will  be  the  end  of  seeing  and 
feeling." 

"Michael — "  She  in  her  turn  murmured  the 
name  and  checked  the  tide  of  selfishness. 

I  clenched  my  fists  in  the  effort  of  self-control. 
Waywardly  a  tag  of  verse  fluttered  against  the 
window  of  memory.  "Thou  hast  conquered,  O 
pale  Galilean!"  Honor  and  misery  against  hap- 
piness, golden  happiness,  and — shame.  Shame? 
In  the  world's  eyes,  perhaps ;  love  admits  no  social 
vetoes.  "Pale  Galilean."  How  it  suited  Michael! 
At  the  last,  breeding  with  its  innate  love  of  gesture, 
its  involuntary  distrust  of  selfishness,  conquered 
desire. 

"I  will  go  and  see  him,"  I  said. 


When  I  entered  the  library,  Michael  was  in 
his  favorite  attitude  against  the  mantelpiece, 
shoulders  hunched,  hands  in  trouser  pockets.    He 


216  Privilege 

looked  up  but  said  nothing,  nor  did  the  set  melan- 
choly of  his  face  alter  in  any  way.  I  began  at 
once. 

"I  have  not  come  to  defy  nor  to  apologize.  I 
suppose  I  am  a  blackguard,  but  that  you  are 
probably  aware  of  already.  I  hope  to-morrow's 
move  to  town  will  proceed  as  usual.  When  you 
return  here  I  shall  be  gone.  All  will  be  in  order. 
Do  you  approve  ? ' ' 

He  had  withdrawn  one  hand  from  its  pocket 
and  was  playing  with  his  watch-chain.  His  head 
drooped,  and  I  could  see  only  the  sparse  fair  hair, 
scrupulously  parted,  and  the  pale  crescent  of  his 
foreshortened  brow. 

"It  is  all  very  difficult,"  he  said  quietly,  so 
quietly  that  one  would  suppose  he  were  merely 
continuing  an  interrupted  discussion.  "I  do  not 
see  my  way.  I  have  failed  her  somehow.  And 
yet  I  love  her,  Dick — sometimes  to  my  own  shame. 
But  I  have  failed  her,  and  she,  naturally,  turns 
elsewhere.  Ideally  I  ought  to  say  to  you,  "Take 
her."  It  would  break  my  heart,  but  I  could  do  it — 
and  should  do  it  but  for —  Is  it  cowardly,  Dick? 
I  have  worked  so  hard  to  remove  the  stain  from 
Whern,  and  another  scandal  now  .  .  .  All  for 
nothing.     I  cannot   sacrifice  my   work."     Then 


The  Tenth  Commandment     217 

with  a  spurt  of  anger, ' '  I  will  not  sacrifice  my  work. 
There  must  be  no  scandal." 

"Of  course  not,"  I  broke  in.  "And  for  that 
reason  alone  I  must  go." 

But  once  more  the  attenuated  violence  of  an 
ancient  race  failed  and  broke.  Anger  left  him,  and, 
with  the  fatal  ease  of  the  over-complex,  he  was  con- 
sidering once  again  the  point  of  view  of  the  enemy. 

"But  it  would  be  wanton  cruelty  to  crush  her 
happiness.  She  has  had  so  little.  At  first  a  satyr, 
then — a  stick."  He  smiled  with  such  bitterness 
of  misery  that,  for  all  its  treachery,  my  heart 
ached  for  him.  "A  stick,"  he  repeated.  "That 
is  what  she  thinks.  She  is  so  warm  and  generous. 
She  would  make  a  great  sinner,  Dick.  And  yet 
connivance  ...  It  is  not  easy  to  bring 
oneself  .    .    ." 

' '  Michael !     For  God's  sake ! " 

This  trifling  with  detachment  filled  me  with 
horror.  Again  one  half  of  me  reacted  from  the 
undeserved  opportunities  presented  to  the  other 
half.  Michael  could  have  found  no  better  way  of 
killing  my  guilty  passion  than  by  this  cool  attitude  of 
acceptance.    He  raised  a  hand  at  my  interruption. 

"One  moment.  I  am  clear  only  on  one  thing. 
There  must  be  no  scandal.     Personally,  I  do  not 


218  Privilege 

count.  A  man  who  cannot  hold  his  wife  deserves 
to  lose  her.  But  as  head  of  the  family  I  can  order 
its  goings.  Will  it  not  be  scandalous  if  you  leave 
home?  If  I  press  you  to  stay,  you  will  say  the 
temptation  is  too  great.  Yield  to  it  then.  I  have 
every  confidence  in  your  discretion." 

In  growing  astonishment  and  discomfort  I  had 
stepped  backwards  to  the  door.  Was  he  doing 
this  as  a  refinement  of  cruelty  ?  But  there  was  no 
gleam  either  of  triumph  or  malice  in  his  quietly 
puzzled  eyes. 

"On  the  whole,  I  am  sure  that  is  the  best  plan. 
I  shall  not  like  it,  no  man  could.  But  perhaps  it 
is  my  duty  to  Whern — and  to  Barbara.    .    .    . " 

Turning  quickly  against  the  mantel  he  buried 
his  head  in  his  arms.  The  door  once  closed  between 
us,  I  paused  uncertainly  on  the  edge  of  the  gleam- 
ing floor  of  the  hall.  It  was  getting  late.  The 
house  was  very  still.  A  wish  to  see  Barbara  took 
me  fiercely  by  the  throat.  She  was  no  longer  in 
the  alcove.  The  drawing-room  was  in  darkness. 
Half  unconsciously  I  walked  upstairs  and  down 
the  western  gallery.  At  her  door  I  stood  a  moment, 
then  knocked. 

"Come  in!" 

She  was  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire.     Her  hair 


The  Tenth  Commandment      219 

swirled  like  a  moorland  stream  over  her  shoulders ; 
she  wore  a  long  yellow  dressing-gown,  and  her  feet 
were  bare. 

"Come  in,  Dick,"  she  said.  "I  was  expecting 
you.     What  happened  ? ' ' 

Crossing  the  room  I  stood  against  the  fireplace 
looking  down  on  her.  She  raised  her  arms  behind 
her  head  and  lay  back  in  the  chair. 

"What  happened?"  she  repeated. 

The  beauty  of  her  thawed  the  chill  of  uncer- 
tainty that  had  closed  round  my  heart.  For  a 
moment  I  grasped  eagerly  at  the  implication  of 
Michael's  fantastic  offer.  But  as  I  began  to  speak, 
there  crept  over  me  again  a  faint  disgust. 

' '  He  blames  himself, ' '  I  said  hurriedly.  ' '  Wishes 
for  your  happiness.  But  insists  there  should  be 
no  scandal  and  that  my  going  would  cause  one." 

"Well?" 

"So  he  proposes — at  least  I  understood  .  .  . 
It  is  not  credible.    .    .    .  " 

'To  let  things  take  their  course,   I   suppose? 
That  is  like  Michael." 

Her  voice  had  become  suddenly  luscious.  There 
is  no  other  word.  As  she  spoke  she  stretched 
lazily,  and  the  dressing-gown  fell  open.  A  low 
white  bodice  showed  the  dark  cream  of  her  throat 


220  Privilege 

and  the  shadowy  division  of  her  breasts.  With 
head  tilted  back  she  watched  me  with  drooping 
lids.  "How  modern  it  all  is!"  she  murmured. 
And  then, ' '  Come  to  me,  Richard.   .    . 

I  felt  my  whole  body  tremble.  Gazing  at  her 
loveliness  I  felt  a  thirst  that  only  her  kisses  could 
assuage.  I  longed  to  bury  my  face  in  her  bosom, 
to  kiss  her  shoulder  and  throat  and  lips,  to  close 
with  kisses  those  smouldering  eyes.  But  I  could 
not  move.  The  next  instant  the  old  faint  disgust 
dried  my  mouth  and  sent  a  shiver  down  my  spine. 

"It  is  all  spoilt,"  I  said,  "all  spoilt  now." 

She  literally  sprang  from  her  chair. 

* '  Spoilt ! "  she  cried.  "Am  I  fat  or  ugly  ?  What 
is  spoilt?" 

Her  anger  filled  me  with  humility. 

"Darling,"  I  whispered,  "you  are  the  loveliest 
thing  that  ever  was  and  I  am  always  and  cease- 
lessly your  lover.  But  I  cannot  take  you  like  this 
— on  lease." 

"You  are  afraid,"  she  said  contemptuously. 
"Or  else  you  have  such  conceit  that  only  the  for- 
bidden is  desirable." 

I  stood  with  bowed  head.  Perhaps  she  was  right ; 
perhaps  my  love  was  vanity  and  its  desire  only 
self -flattery.     Nevertheless  I  knew  it  was  not  so. 


The  Tenth  Commandment     221 

"You  are  right  to  be  angry.  I  seem  to  have 
insulted  you.  But  I  have  not,  Barbara.  Love 
must  not  be  hideous  and  furtive." 

' '  Then  it  is  cowardice.  You  have  been  described 
before,  I  believe,  as  'not  all  of  a  man.'  Why  do 
you  not  take  me  away,  if  you  will  not  rent  me 
from  your  brother?" 

Her  cruel  misuse  of  my  own  metaphor  and  of 
the  borrowed  taunt  hurt  me  savagely.  I  wrenched 
my  mind  to  a  new  angle. 

"I  will  take  you,"  I  said.  "We  will  go  to- 
morrow." 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  answered.  "I  am  quite 
comfortable  here." 

With  elaborate  indifference  she  sat  down  again 
and  took  a  cigarette  from  the  box  at  her  side.  As 
I  did  not  move,  she  threw  a  careless  glance  in  my 
direction. 

"Good-night.  I  am  hardly  dressed  for  visitors. 
And  after  all  this  is  my  bedroom." 

So  everything  is  finished,  I  thought  miserably, 
and  stumbled  to  my  own  room.  But  why  matters 
had  fallen  out  so  twistedly  and  where  was  my 
fault  and  where  hers,  not  hours  of  sleeplessness 
and  pondering  could  determine. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  END  OF  CARNIVAL 


I  had  been  three  weeks  in  the  low  white  hotel 
beside  the  idle  sea.  The  sun  had  blazed  indiffer- 
ently from  languid  dawn  to  passionate,  brooding 
dusk.  It  was  all  very  lovely  with  the  hateful, 
empty  loveliness  of  southern  exile,  and  I  believed 
I  longed  as  much  for  London  sleet  and  the  gleam 
of  the  Circus  lights  on  mud  and  hurrying  revelers 
as  for  the  more  personal  elements  of  the  life  that 
I  had  left.     Then  Barbara  wrote: 

Dick  dear,  I  was  just  somebody  else.  Forget  it 
all  and  come  back.  The  whole  business  is  over  and 
done  with.    Michael  is  asking  for  you. 

With  the  opening  of  a  door  of  release,  the  glitter 
of  my  surroundings  became  doubly  tawdry,  and 
I  realized  how  I  hated  blue  water  and  blinding, 
dusty  roads  and  the  vivid  coloring  of  fabulous 

222 


The  End  of  Carnival  223 

flowers.  For  my  last  evening  I  sought  amusement 
among  the  other  guests,  courted  instead  of  fled 
their  company,  reckless  of  indiscretion  or  discour- 
tesy or  habitual  reserve.  The  poisonous  little 
woman  with  bulging  eyes  and  a  skin  like  parsley 
soup  tried  me  on  freedom  and  the  nobler  life. 

"Youth,"  she  said,  "is  nature's  master.  Until 
youth  defies  age  and  cramping  beliefs  and  strikes 
off  across  the  world  towards  an  untrameled  de- 
stiny there  can  be  no  beauty  and  no  love." 

"You  people  talk,"  I  replied,  "as  though  all 
youth  were  golden  and  beautiful  and  all  age  cruel 
and  horrible.  But  I  know  many  young  men  and 
women  both  fanatical  and  plain  and  many  old 
ones  both  tolerant  and  gracious." 

"Bodily  beauty  is  nothing,"  she  retorted. 

"Could  I  agree,  I  should  be  consoled.  Perhaps 
I  am  degenerate  or  unready  for  the  gospel,  but 
give  me  the  pretty  girl  every  time." 

She  left  me.  I  suppose  the  conviction  that  a 
radiant  soul  can  transpire  an  ill-thriven  body  and 
a  mean  or  empty  face  is  as  comforting  as  any  other. 
It  seems  to  be  cherished  usually  by  the  ill-favored, 

The  next  moment  I  heard  a  voice: 

"Is  it  not  Mr.  Braden?" 

The  face  was  dimly  familiar;  the  long  thrawn 


224  Privilege 

body  more  so;  the  feet  in  old  brown  sand-shoes 
most  of  all. 

"Of  course!"  I  said.  "Mr.  Moffat!  Why  did 
you  never  come  to  see  me?" 

"I  did,"  he  replied.  "But  not  for  a  long  while. 
I  had  other  things  to  do.  When  I  chanced  a  call 
you  had  left  the  address  you  gave  me." 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  I  said.  I  ordered  drinks 
and  explained  my  disappearance  from  Fitzroy 
Square.     "And  what  are  you  doing?" 

He  shot  me  a  suspicious  glance  and  I  saw  that 
an  idle  question  had  been  taken  for  curiosity. 
Perversely  I  now  wished  for  the  answer.  To  en- 
courage him  I  set  an  example. 

"I  am  here,"  I  said,  "as  an  exile.  There  was 
trouble  in  England  and  someone  had  to  go.  So 
I  went." 

He  gleamed  with  interest. 

"Was  it—?"  he  muttered. 

"It  was,"  I  replied  solemnly,  wholly  innocent 
either  of  his  meaning  or  of  my  own. 

"I  have  just  come  from  Zurich,"  he  went  on, 
"and  go  to  Naples  after  a  few  days.  There  is 
business  in  Marseilles.   .    .    .     The  tide  is  rising." 

"Capital,"  I  said  brightly.     "Capital!" 

He  was  fingering  his  glass  nervously,  and  I  could 


The  End  of  Carnival  225 

see  the  long  fingers  stained  with  nicotine  whiten 
and  grow  dark  again  as  he  tightened  and  relaxed 
his  grip  on  the  smooth  surface. 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me — "  I  began, — "or 
rather  you  would  perhaps  have  told  me,  had  I 
been  still  at  my  rooms  when  you  called — what 
you  and  your  friends  are  going  to  do  about — well, 
about  us." 

"About  you?" 

1 '  Yes, — all  my  lot.     My  sister's  lot. " 

He  sneered. 

"I  was  too  busy  over  trifles  in  those  days." 

"And  now?" 

"I  am  not  a  simpleton,  Mr.  Braden.  You  were 
fair  to  me  that  night  in  London  and  I  respect  your 
intelligence,  but  I  am  not  merciful." 

The  evident  belief  that  I  was  currying  favor 
with  the  future  tickled  me. 

1 '  Why  did  you  speak  to  me  just  now  ? ' ' 

"Who  knows?  I  have  nothing  against  you. 
Perhaps  I  was  anxious  to  see  how  you  had  pro- 
gressed." 

"I  am  the  merest  neophyte,"  I  said  humbly. 
"But  it  is  not  bad  to  have  had  to  leave  England." 

Once  again  that  gleam  of  involuntary  interest. 

"Tell  me  what  happened." 

IS 


226  Privilege 

I  shook  my  head. 

"I  am  not  a  simpleton,  Mr.  Moffat." 

He  smiled  unpleasantly  and  drained  his  glass. 

"Another?"  he  queried. 

"If  you  choose  to  pay  for  it,"  I  said,  "I  shall 
be  delighted.  The  coming  of  equality  will  at  least 
do  away  with  treating." 

He  did  not  speak  again  until  the  replenished 
glasses  were  at  hand.  Then  he  peered  solemnly 
into  my  eyes. 

"Seriously  .    .    ."he  began. 

I  nodded. 

"This  is  not  chatter.  I  know.  There  is  going 
to  be  trouble  for  you  and  your  sort." 

"It  won't  be  the  first,"  I  replied. 

"No — but  it  will  be  the  last!"  His  ferocity 
startled  me  into  something  like  curiosity.  As  once 
before,  I  wanted  to  learn  more  of  this  strange, 
angry  man. 

"What  is  your  grudge  against  Society? "  I  asked. 

He  seemed  genuinely  surprised,  and  it  was  a  dif- 
ferent being  that  answered  in  bland  astonishment. 

"Grudge?  I  have  no  grudge — no  personal 
grudge." 

And  I  realized  that  I  was  talking  to  a  genuine 
and  fanatical  idealist,  a  type  that  did  not  exist 


The  End  of  Carnival  227 

in  my  experience,  and  a  type,  therefore,  that  I 
considered  did  not  exist  at  all.  Characteristically 
— for  I  have  a  mundane  and  practical  mind — my 
interest  faded  before  the  possibility  of  rhetorical 
theory.  Moffat  was  suddenly  an  illimitable  bore. 
A  terror  seized  me  that  he  would  start  on  Marx. 
I  decided  to  liquidate. 

"As  we  are  on  different  sides,"  I  said  emphat- 
ically, ' '  I  shall  not  wish  you  luck.  I  merely  warn 
you  that  trumpets  these  days  are  not  enough  to 
down  the  walls  of  Jericho." 

"If  the  walls  are  obstinate,  Mr.  Braden,  there 
are  other  weapons." 

I  got  up. 

"All  right.  So  long  as  you  are  prepared.  Are 
you  a  Christian?" 

He  snorted. 

"I  am  not,"  he  replied  angrily. 

"Then  I  will  not  quote  Scripture  to  you.  You 
might  think  I  had  invented  it.  But  there  are 
points  about  humility  and  gentleness  .    .    . " 

: '  Why  do  you  close  your  ears ! "  he  cried.  ' '  Have 
the  poor  been  treated  with  gentleness  ?  Have  the 
rich  showed  humility?  Was  your  sister  humble 
and  kind  that  night  in  London?  And  you  talk 
to  me  of  Christ!" 


228  Privilege 

For  a  moment  I  stood  looking  down  at  him, 
at  his  black,  untidy  hair,  and  the  dark,  lined  face 
with  its  flashing  eyes.  As  I  looked  I  felt,  as  keenly 
as  one  of  my  cool  and  critical  mind  can  ever  feel, 
the  lure  of  righteous  anger.  He  was  right ;  morally 
and  philosophically  he  was  right.  My  aloofness 
was  a  meaner,  more  diluted,  emotionalism,  a  pro- 
tective wall  between  cold  truth  and  the  romantic 
fancies  of  a  sheltered  intellect.    And  yet   .    .    . 

"I  understand,"  I  said  slowly.  "And  I  sympa- 
thize. But  if  it  comes  to  blows  we  shall  be  on 
different  sides." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Inevitably.  Even  if  you  wished  it  we  should 
shut  you  out.  You  belong  to  the  other  lot  and 
always  must.    But  I  am  a  little  sorry." 

"Don't  be  that,"  I  said.  "Only  victors  can 
afford  regrets,  and  you  have  not  won  yet.  Good- 
night." 

"Good-night,"  he  replied.  "Make  hay  while 
the  sun  shines." 


II 


Moffat's  parting  words  recurred  amusingly  to 
my  mind  as  the  boat  train,  two  days  later,  groped 


The  End  of  Carnival  229 

through  a  foggy  drizzle  to  Charing  Cross.  Some 
weedy  Italianate  women  with  pince-nez  and  super- 
fluous veils  were  my  neighbors  in  the  Pullman.    •» 

"Ugh!  And  to  think  that  only  on  Wednesday 
we  were  barsking  in  that  larvely  sunshine!" 

"What  a  climate!" 

They  exchanged  miseries  for  so  long  and  with 
such  penetrating  gusto  that  I  rashly  intervened. 

' '  I  once  knew  a  man  who  preferred  London  and 
slush  to  any  place  or  any  weather." 

"Warse  he  a  mudguard  maker?"  asked  one  of 
the  women, — which  disposed  of  me  for  the  time 
being,  and  deservedly,  for  forgetting  how  often  a 
dry  skin  means  a  dry  humor. 

I  taxied  to  the  address  in  Cadogan  Square  from 
which  Barbara  had  written,  and  found  a  comfort- 
able house  full  of  good  English  lacquer.  Levitt 
received  me  cordially.  Her  ladyship  was  out,  but 
Miss  Monica  was  in  the  boudoir.  She  was;  and 
wearing  a  light  wrap  over  next  to  nothing.  Clothes 
of  every  kind  strewed  the  sofas  and  chairs. 

"Lord,  Dick!"  she  cried.  "How  you  do  force 
your  way  in !    I'm  as  naked  as  Eve.    Go  away." 

"Don't  mind  me,"  I  said.  "I've  just  come  from 
the  south  on  purpose  to  get  you  a  wedding  present. 
What  about  a  Jaeger  sleeping-suit?" 


230  Privilege 

"Would  that  knock  Buda?" 

1 '  It  would.  Also  very  handy  in  case  of  sudden 
callers.    Where's  Hunyadi?" 

"Dick,  you  are  awful.  Poor  Putzschen.  He's 
playing  bridge  somewhere,  I  believe.  I  stayed  in 
to — well,  you  see  .  .  .  Incidentally,  if  you  are 
set  on  a  wedding  present,  there's  an  adorable 
clock  at  Welsenheimer's." 

"Good,"  I  said.  "That's  settled.  Now  what's 
the  news?" 

She  stretched  revealingly,  and  I  felt  a  mild 
vanity  at  the  possession  of  so  beautiful  a  sister. 

"News?  Barbara  seems  to  have  had  a  tiff  with 
the  chief  and  made  it  up  again.  They're  as  chirpy 
as  anything  now.  And  he's  to  be  an  Under-Secre- 
tary when  the  Tories  come  in." 

"Are  they  going  to? "  I  asked,  mindful  of  Moffat. 

"God  knows.  In  Hungary  we  never  let  them 
go  out.    It's  so  much  simpler." 

"'We'  already?" 

She  threw  a  cushion  at  me,  and  then,  glancing 
at  the  watch  on  her  wrist,  rang  the  bell. 

' '  Valerie,  I  have  to  be  at  the  Berkeley  in  an  hour. 
Why  didn't  you  say  it  was  so  late?  I'll  wear  the 
gold  and  blue,  and  I  want  a  bath.  Clear  off  all 
this  rubbish.     So  long,    Richie.      I'm  going  to 


The  End  of  Carnival  231 

Covent  Garden  with  the  Lambournes.  Blow  in 
during  the  interval  if  you're  down  town." 

Alone,  I  smoked  cigarettes  and  one  after  another 
picked  up  the  books  that  lay  about  on  the  tables. 
The  air  in  the  room  was  warm,  and  faintly  scented 
with  flowers  and  femininity ;  behind  the  curtains  of 
the  window  London  breathed  deliciously.  Every- 
thing was  muted  and  luxurious,  but  not  London 
nor  this  discreet  opulence  could  compensate  for 
the  want  of  familiar  things.  I  wanted  Whern  and 
the  people  I  knew,  and — more  than  anything — 
Barbara.  But  there  was  no  Barbara  here;  the 
very  room  was  wrongly  keyed.  Once  more  I 
wandered  aimlessly  from  place  to  place.  I  read 
the  evening  paper  and  strewed  it  on  the  floor.  I 
played  half  a  waltz  on  the  piano.  Suddenly  a 
telephone  whirred.  I  found  the  instrument  in  a 
distant  recess,  and  at  the  first  sound  of  the  voice 
became  again  content  and  purposeful. 

"Yes,  it  is  really  me." 

"Oh,  about  an  hour  ago.  When  will  you  be 
back?" 

"Naturally,  if  you  are." 

"Sorry,  I  forgot." 


232  Privilege 

•  •      • 

"Monica  was  here;  she's  dining  out  for  the 
opera." 

•  *       • 

"And  you  refused?    Why?" 

"Now,  who  is  forgetting?" 

"Splendid.     Don't  be  long." 
Ringing  off  I  went  to  dress  for  dinner. 

We  were  alone,  she  and  I,  with  the  pleasant 
formality  of  other  folks'  possessions  handled  by 
our  own  servants. 

"You  are  looking  well,"  I  said  politely. 

1 '  I  am ;  very  well.  How  does  London  seem  after 
the  Midi?" 

I  laughed. 

"For  heaven's  sake!  One  of  us  will  say  things 
are  seasonable  in  a  minute." 

She  smiled  with  tranquil  indifference.  How 
quietly  friendly  it  all  was !  Dinner  moved  imper- 
ceptibly to  its  close. 

"You  are  not  inquisitive,  Dick.  All  kinds  of 
adventures  might  have  befallen  us  in  your  absence, 
and  you  never  ask." 

"Monica  said  there  was  no  news,  except  that 


The  End  of  Carnival  233 

Michael  would  be  a  Cabinet  Minister  in  five  hund- 
red years." 

"Poor  darling!  He's  more  likely  to  be  cockshy 
for  Jacobins.     This  Rodbury  affair  ..." 

I  looked  interrogation. 

"The  strike." 

"What  strike?" 

"Bless  the  innocent!  He  knows  nothing. 
Hadn't  you  heard  of  the  railway  row?  All  about 
those  slum  houses?" 

I  listened  to  her  disjointed  and  somewhat  vague 
account  of  the  trouble  at  Rodbury.  Although  no 
demolition  was  planned  for  several  months,  a 
curious  agitation  had  been  started  for  provision 
to  be  made  for  the  future.  Matters  had  come  to 
an  actual  strike.  The  yards  had  now  been  out 
three  days,  and  there  had  been  speeches  against 
Michael  worded  with  significant  violence.  Indeed, 
the  strike  was  in  essence  anti-Whern.  The  com- 
pany were  clearly  disinclined  to  any  step  likely 
to  transfer  the  enmity  of  their  employees  to  them- 
selves. In  response  to  demands  for  house  ac- 
commodation they  returned  conciliatory  optimism 
coupled  with  a  discreet  reference  to  obstructive 
landowners.  An  unusual  state  of  affairs  was 
evolving;  one  in  which  the  parties  technically  at 


234  Privilege 

war  were  slowly  drawing  together  against  a  third 
antagonist,  ostensibly  unconcerned  in  the  matter, 
but  with  increasing  frequency  dragged  in  by  in- 
ference or  by  name. 

"Has  Michael  done  anything?"  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"He's  horribly  busy,  and,  besides,  what  could 
he  do?  It's  not  his  business.  He  sold  the  land 
and  the  company  bought  it." 

"Terrible  affair,"  I  commented  lightly,  and  put 
the  matter  from  my  mind,  being  uninterested  in 
social  problems  except  in  so  far  as  they  affected 
myself. 

Upstairs  over  coffee  we  became  more  personal. 

"What  made  you  write?"  I  asked. 

If  I  counted  on  embarrassment  or  tenderness, 
or  even  reproof,  I  was  disappointed.  Barbara 
remained  pleasantly  suave. 

"I've  wanted  your  company,  my  dear.  Also  the 
wedding  is  next  week." 

"Nonsense,"  I  retorted  crossly.  "Don't  put 
me  off.  I  want  to  know  what  you've  said  to 
Michael." 

She  gave  a  slight  shrug,  and  her  hands  gestured 
wild  impatience. 

"Why   not   leave   things   alone?     Surely   this 


The  End  of  Carnival  235 

passion  for  wound-probing  ...  I  said  the 
whole  business  was  over.  So  it  is.  Let's  leave  it 
at  that." 

I  stared  at  her  in  perplexity.  She  could  ma- 
nipulate the  inner  lighting  of  her  face  with  dis- 
quieting adroitness.  The  facade  was  familiar;  the 
broad,  white  forehead,  the  strong,  straight  eye- 
brows, the  firmly  generous  lips.  But  there  was  no 
welcome  in  the  eyes,  and  the  full  graciousness  of 
her  was  now  only  admirable  where  before  it  had 
the  lure  of  intimate  prodigality.  I  felt  the  sore- 
ness of  injured  dignity,  and  all  the  more  keenly 
because  I  had  betrayed  my  own  case  by  returning 
home  at  all.  Clearly  I  was  unlucky  in  love; 
women  played  with  the  idea  of  me  and  then — 
Cripples  cannot  be  choosers. 

"I  thought  of  looking  in  at  Covent  Garden," 
I  said.     ' '  Will  you  come  ? ' ' 

She  shook  her  head  and  looked  at  me  whimsi- 
cally. A  smile  was  hovering  behind  the  grave 
curtain  of  her  eyes.  I  lost  a  fragment  of  my 
temper. 

"At  least  spare  me  your  mockery!  Surely  I  am 
ridiculous  enough  to  amuse  in  retrospect.  Save 
the  joke  for  my  absence." 

I  am  afraid  I  shut  the  door  with  unnecessary  noise. 


236  Privilege 

Five  minutes  later,  as  I  crossed  the  hall  to  go 
out,  a  key  rattled  in  the  latch  of  the  outer  door 
and  Michael  came  in.  He  looked  tired  and  even 
paler  than  usual.  When  he  saw  me  his  face 
kindled  to  pleased  surprise. 

"It's  Dick!"  he  cried.  "When  did  you  arrive? 
Is  Barbara  in?" 

I  followed  him  to  his  study.  He  mixed  himself 
a  drink  and  lay  back  in  a  long  chair  with  a  sigh 
of  weariness. 

"You  look  done  up,"  I  said,  and  the  comment 
was  not  mere  formalism. 

"I'm  worried  about  this  business  at  Rodbury. 
They've  camped  in  those  fields  near  Leggatt's 
farm  and  the  old  man  is  furious.  I  suppose  I  must 
go  down." 

"What  to  do?" 

"Turn  them  out,  of  course." 

' '  But  really,  Michael— !    What  is  Glenny  for? " 

"Glenny  is  in  a  blue  funk.  He  wired  to  me  this 
evening  for  instructions.  Pack  of  rotters  they 
seem  to  be  down  there.  It's  very  awkward.  I've 
got  a  deputation  to-morrow  morning,  and  there's 
an  important  debate  to-morrow  night." 

"I'll  go,"  I  said  on  a  sudden  impulse.  "After 
all,  it's  my  job.    I  never  should  have  left  my  post. " 


The  End  of  Carnival  237 

He  glanced  up  at  me. 

"Will  you?  That  would  be  splendid.  I  shall 
be  most  grateful.  I'll  come  on  Friday  if  it's 
essential.  But  use  your  own  judgment.  You 
have  a  free  hand." 

"Then,  in  case  I  don't  see  you  to-morrow  morn- 
ing— farewell,"  I  said  moving  to  the  door.  "I 
expect  I'll  be  in  late.  The  Lambournes  and 
Monica  will  be  supping  somewhere." 

"Good-night,"  he  replied. 


in 


I  have  always  enjoyed  luxury  in  theater-going. 
On  that  first  evening  after  exile  the  soft  darkness 
of  the  Lambourne's  box  held  in  its  secret  folds 
the  essence  of  opulent  and  gracious  London  which, 
in  my  torrid  solitude  abroad,  I  had  so  restlessly 
desired.  The  second  act  was  in  progress,  and,  as 
I  pushed  open  the  door,  I  saw  against  the  hot  glow 
of  the  still  invisible  stage,  Monica's  head  with  its 
turban  and  plume,  and  the  faint  mistiness  of  Delia 
Lambourne's  flaxen  curls.  A  glimmer  of  shirt 
front  to  my  left  betrayed  Lambourne  himself, 
stocky,  a  little  bored.  I  leant  against  the  wall 
and  allowed  the  music  to  run  like  caressing  water 


238  Privilege 

over  my  relaxed  contentment.  I  was  glad  of  my 
host's  taciturnity,  of  my  hostess's  genuine  love  of 
music.  Impersonality  and  silence,  high  above  the 
breathing  trough  of  a  crowded  house — these  to 
my  home-longing  meant  perfect  satiety. 

The  interval  brought  an  unexpected  message. 
"Lady  Whern  has  telephoned  that  she  will  join 
Lady  Lambourne  at  supper.  If  not  at  the  Savoy, 
would  Lady  Lambourne  send  word." 

"How  nice!"  said  Delia  in  her  friendly  way. 
"Dear  Barbara.  She  knew  we  wanted  her  so 
much.  No,  it's  quite  all  right "  (to  the  attendant). 
"There's  no  message,  thank  you." 

At  the  Savoy  we  found  Barbara  and  Kolosz- 
vary  drinking  soda-water.  Delia  fluttered  for- 
ward. 

"Dear  things.  How  sweet  of  you  to  come! 
What  on  earth  is  that  dangerous  bottle?" 

"We  were  so  hungry,"  pouted  Barbara,  "and 
the  young  man  found  me  a  wretched  substitute 
for  Monica.  So  we  thought  a  little  dissipation 
.    .    .     Did  you  have  a  good  show?" 

Supper  progressed  uneventfully.  Then  Monica 
yawned. 

"The  child  is  sleepy,"  said  Delia.  "Count 
Koloszvary  must  take  her  home.     Good-night, 


The  End  of  Carnival  239 

darling.  How  lovely  you  look  m  that  dress!  I 
wish  I  had  your  shoulders." 

Inevitably  Monica's  shoulders  became  a  subject 
of  inspection  (to  which,  incidentally,  she  readily 
lent  herself),  and  I  noticed  a  faint  gleam  in  Putzi's 
eyes.  "What  a  low  lot  men  are,"  I  thought, 
because  I  understood  the  gleam  and  sympathized 
with  it  and  hated  myself  for  doing  so. 

The  fiances  disappeared.  We  sat  a  while  longer 
and  then  drifted  towards  the  door.  As  she  got 
into  the  car,  Barbara  said: 

1 '  Dick,  tell  him  to  drive  towards  Richmond  and 
then  back.     I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

I  obeyed,  and,  getting  in  beside  her,  waited  for 
enlightenment. 

"You  saw  Michael  to-night?"  she  began. 

"I  did." 

"What  about  these  squatters?" 

"I'm  going  down  to-morrow." 

"To  do  what?" 

"Well,"  with  a  laugh,  "that's  the  trouble.  What 
shall  I  do?    Have  you  any  suggestions?" 

She  did  not  reply  at  once  but  sat  staring  away 
from  me  out  of  the  window  of  the  car.  Against 
the  sliding  background  of  dark  houses  and  pale, 
hurrying  faces,  I  saw  her  frown  in  perplexity. 


240  Privilege 

"I  suppose  I'd  better  tell  you,"  she  said  at  last. 
"Do  you  remember  at  Whern  last  Christmas,  Mary 
trying  to  start  a  row  with  me  about  my  promises 
to  Verney  ?  Michael  treated  the  affair  as  he  treats 
every  fragment  of  bad  breeding — he  just  brushed  it 
aside  and  it  was  never  mentioned  again.  But  there 
was  something  in  what  Mary  said.  I  did  pro- 
mise things  and — and  this  outbreak  is  the  result." 

"Goon,"  I  said. 

She  turned  to  me  quickly  and  laid  her  hand  on 
my  knee. 

"Dick,  don't  you  be  stern  with  me!  You  said 
that  like  Michael.     Mayn't  I  finish?" 

"Dear  child,  haven't  I  begged  you  to  do  so?" 

"You're  being  horrid,  Dick.  I  wish  I'd  never 
begun.  And  I  counted  on  your  help.  That's  why 
I  came  to  the  Savoy.    To  talk  to  you." 

This  inconsequence  annoyed  me.  Barbara  was 
not  an  eighteen-year-old,  to  play  the  wayward 
feminine. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake  get  on,"  I  said  crossly. 

For  answer  she  took  the  speaking  tube  and  bade 
the  chauffeur  drive  home  after  all.  In  despair  I 
sat  back  into  my  corner  and  cursed  the  moods  of 
women.  She  spoke  only  as  we  were  mounting  the 
house-steps. " 


The  End  of  Carnival  241 

"You're  going  by  train,  I  suppose?" 
"Yes.      Ten-thirty,    I    think.      I'll    telephone 
Glenny  to  meet  me." 


IV 


The  agent  was  on  Laylham  platform  as  the 
train  stopped.  He  greeted  me  politely  and  we 
walked  together  towards  the  roadway. 

"I  had  not  understood,"  he  began  a  little  awk- 
wardly, "that  Lady  Whern  would  also  be  coming 
to-day.  It  confused  matters  a  little.  When  I  got 
your  message " 

I  interrupted  him. 

"What  time  did  Lady  Whern  arrive?" 

"She  came  on  tne  early  train.  Of  course  there 
was  no  conveyance  here.  I  did  not  know.  .  .  . 
I  am  very  sorry  there  should  have  been  a  muddle." 

I  said  nothing  and  moved  towards  the  station 
exit  once  again.  Glenny  edged  along  by  my  side, 
seemingly  reluctant  to  leave  the  platform. 

"Lady  Whern  asked  me  to  tell  you  she  would 
be  here  directly,  and  would  you  wait  for  her." 

"Will  you  wait  as  well?" 

"If  you  will  excuse  me,  Mr.  Braden,  I  ought  to 

get  off.     Lady  Whern  told  mc  I  should  lose  no 
16 


242  Privilege 

time  in  seeing  Mr.  Vemey's  committee,  and  I 
understand  they  are  meeting  in  Rodbury  in  an 
hour." 

"All  right,"  I  said.  "Don't  wait  on  my  ac- 
count.   I'll  go  over  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Purcell  at  the 

•       »> 
inn. 

We  shook  hands  and  separated.  I  made  no 
attempt  to  forecast  what  had  happened.  There 
would  be  explanation  and  to  spare  when  Barbara 
arrived.  In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Purcell  was  an 
old  friend  and  a  cheery  soul,  and  a  glass  of  her 
excellent  ale  would  help  towards  a  desirable 
placidity  of  mind. 

It  was  nearly  half  an  hour  later  that  a  car 
swished  past  the  window  and  jerked  to  a  stand- 
still at  the  station  entrance.  Barbara  was 
driving.  She  jumped  out  and  hurried  into  the 
booking-office.  I  watched  from  the  inn  parlor  and 
continued  my  conversation  with  the  landlady. 
Naturally  it  concerned  the  strike  and  her  sympa- 
thies were  with  Michael.  As  she  poured  forth  her 
scorn  of  the  good-for-nothings  who  were  driving  old 
Farmer  Leggatt  to  madness,  I  kept  my  eye  on  the 
station  door.  Barbara  emerged  and  hurried 
towards  the  inn.  The  next  minute  she  was  on  the 
threshold  of  the  parlor. 


The  End  of  Carnival  243 


<<i 


'Come  on,  Dick.  There's  no  time  to  lose.  Why 
didn't  you  show  yourself  before?  (Good  morning, 
Mrs.  Purcell.  .  .  .  Yes,  very  nice,  but  rather 
cold.)    You  must  have  seen  me." 

"I  saw  you,"  I  said.    "And  a  very  nice  sight  it 


was." 


She  frowned  impatiently  and  tapped  with  her 
foot  on  the  floor.     "Are  you  coming?" 

Leisurely  I  paid  for  my  beer  and  took  leave  of 
Mrs.  Purcell. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  I  asked  mildly. 

"Rodbury — to  see  Verney." 

"What  a  pleasure!  I  gather  Glenny  is  there 
already.  May  I  be  told  the  position?  It  makes 
things  easier,  and  I  should  like  to  look  as  small  a 
fool  as  possible  in  the  circumstances." 

She  laughed  and  patted  my  arm. 

"Poor  old  thing,"  she  said  caressingly.  "I 
treated  you  rather  meanly.  But  you  wouldn't 
listen  last  night " 

"Really,  Barbara!"  I  broke  in,  "you  are  im- 
possible !  For  heaven's  sake  stop  telling  me  about 
last  night!  I  don't  pretend  to  know  what  I  did 
wrong,  but  I  apologize  and  withdraw  and  climb 
down.     Is  that  sufficient?" 

"Tut,  tut,  Richard.     I  was  trying  for  a  rise. 


244  Privilege 

Jump  in!  Quick!  Now  that  we're  off,  let's  be 
serious.  I  had  to  give  you  the  slip  and  get  here 
first.     I've  settled  it  all." 

I  maintained  a  sceptical  silence. 

"Settled  it,  Richard.    Do  you  hear?" 

"Danegeld?"  I  queried. 

"Partly.  But  that's  not  where  you  come  in. 
As  I  tried  to  tell  you  yesterday,  I  had  given  myself 
away  to  Verney.  Something  had  to  be  done.  The 
present  houses  come  down  in  September,  and  these 
wretched  folk  must  be  provided  for.  I  see  Leg- 
gatt's  objection  to  the  present  arrangement,  and 
they  will  be  off  his  land  by  to-morrow.  I  am  going 
to  make  over  that  open  space  near  Plaughton  to 
the  Rodbury  Committee,  and  you  have  got  to 
back  me  up." 

I  was  speechless  with  astonishment  at  this  out- 
pouring of  emotional  amateurism.  At  the  same 
time,  I  realized  that  behind  the  positive  abbrevia- 
tion of  her  manner,  she  concealed  doubts  and 
anxieties.  For  a  few  moments  I  watched  the 
hedge-tops  switch-back  beside  the  car  and  en- 
deavored to  collect  my  faculties. 

"I'm  not  sure  if  I  understand,  yet,"  I  said  at 
last.  "Correct  me  if  I  am  wrong,  but  I  imagine 
the  position  to  be  this:     Some  while  ago  you 


The  End  of  Carnival  245 

promised  Verney  to  embark  on  a  housing  scheme. 
He  holds  you  to  your  promise " 

"One  moment " 

"Don't  interrupt.  Let  me  finish.  Verney  in- 
sists on  your  doing  what  you  undertook  to  do. 
Probably  this  demonstration  is  to  force  your  hand. 
It  has  forced  it.  You  are  now  buying  off  the  de- 
monstrators with  (I  assume)  your  own  money  and 
(you  yourself  admit)  Michael's  land.  A  few 
questions.  When  did  you  first  make  promises  to 
Verney — before  the  sale?" 

"Yes — some  time  before.  When  I  first  saw  the 
condition  those  awful  houses  were  in."  She  spoke 
now  in  a  subdued  voice,  and  her  manner  was  as 
docile  as  it  had  previously  been  flippantly  aggressive. 

"It  was  you  then,  after  all,  that  told  him  of 
the  projected  sale?" 

She  nodded. 

"And  you  renewed  your  promises?" 

"Not  exactly.  He  hinted  at  them  and,  like  a 
fool,  I  let  his  hints  pass  unchallenged." 

"Now  he  organizes  this  business,  and" — here  I 
looked  at  her  pointedly  "lets  you  know  indi- 
rectly that  the  remedy  lies  in  your  hands? " 

Again  she  nodded.  In  that  instant  I  had  a 
flash  of  understanding. 


246  Privilege 

"And  that  is  why  you  wrote  for  me?" 

"Dick,"  she  murmured,  "it  was  not  only 
that  ..." 

The  diplomacy  of  that  insinuation  was  unnec- 
essary. Already  I  had  told  myself  that  her  cold- 
ness and  indifference  of  the  day  before  were  mere 
acting.  She  had  sent  for  me  to  help  her,  and  not 
because  all  that  had  passed  had,  as  she  made  out, 
passed  utterly.  A  gradual  excitement  took  pos- 
session of  my  mind.  It  was  an  effort  to  keep 
attention  on  the  matter  of  the  moment. 

"Finally,"  I  said,  "you  talk  of  'making  over 
land'  to  Verney's  committee.  That  means  no- 
thing. You  cannot  'make  over'  someone  else's  land. 
Besides,  this  precious  committee  aren't  builders." 

"I  only  meant  that  I  should  like  houses  built 
there,"  she  said  humbly. 

"By  whom?" 

"Anyone  you  like,  Dick  dear.  I  thought  the 
committee  would  have  some  say  in  the  matter. ' ' 

"And  who  pays?" 

"I  do." 

The  car  hummed  on  its  way.  It  was  a  fine  day 
but  cold,  and  I  shivered  a  little,  as  we  rushed  along 
the  country  road  with  its  untidy  grass  borders  and 
damp  drifts  of  rotting  leaves. 


The  End  of  Carnival  247 

"You  have  got  us  into  a  nice  corner,  Barbara," 
I  said  at  last. 

"But  wasn't  I  right?  Isn't  it  up  to  us  to  do 
something?  Surely  you  can  advise  Michael  that 
this  arrangement  is  the  best  plan  ?  He  only  wants 
to  be  let  alone.  And  that  land  was  all  gorse  and 
rushes  and  sandpits.  There's  water  and  a  high- 
road.    It's  useless  to  us.   ..." 

"I  don't  like  it.    It  means  lying  to  him." 

She  leant  against  me,  and  I  saw  the  downy  hair 
curling  behind  her  ears.  The  heady  scent  of  her 
rocked  in  my  nostrils,  and  once  more  I  was  in  the 
tall  arched  alcove  off  the  great  hall  at  Whern, 
with  its  groined  roof  and  heavily  drooping  cur- 
tains. I  saw  her  hands  stretched  forward  to 
the  wheel  as  on  that  evening  they  had  drooped 
over  her  knees  and  drank  color  from  the  crimson 
rug. 

"Please,  Dick,"  she  whispered. 

A  devil  prompted  me  to  try  a  turn  of  the  screw. 

"You  said  the  whole  business  was  over.  .  .  . 
Leave  it  at  that.  Why  this  passion  for  wound- 
probing?   .    .    ." 

I  threw  all  I  knew  of  caressing  irony  into  this 
quotation  of  her  very  words.  But  she  turned  on 
me  eyes  so  large  with  sorrowful  humility,  so  soft 


248  Privilege 

with  tenderness,  that  I  forgot  everything  except 
how  much  I  loved  her. 

"Forgive  me,"  I  muttered.  "You  know  I  can- 
not refuse  you  anything." 

The  slow  unfurling  of  her  smile  was  ecstasy  to 
see.  She  laid  her  left  hand  on  mine  and  pressed 
it  lightly. 

"Nor  I,"  she  said. 

To  call  our  conspiracy  a  second  treachery  to 
Michael  is  to  use  too  big  a  word.  The  merest 
disingenuity  sufficed,  for  an  honorable  man  is 
sickeningly  easy  to  deceive.  Nevertheless  I  am 
for  some  reason  more  unwilling  to  dwell  on 
this  trifling  incident  than  on  the  greater  fault 
that  went  before  it.  I  see  myself  confronting 
Michael,  outwardly  nonchalant,  at  heart  a  thing 
of  patches.  The  spiritual  covering  of  convention 
and  breeding  was  rent  by  a  passion  that  shamed 
as  it  tore.  I  have  my  happiness  now  and,  to  keep 
it,  would  commit  worse  crimes  than  ever  com- 
passed its  achievement,  but  even  the  attainment 
of  desire  cannot  ennoble  the  means  employed.  If 
the  affair  of  the  Rodbury  tenants  had  passed  over 
less  glibly,  if  what  threatened  a  real  significance 
had   not   petered   out   into   a   triviality   doubly 


The  End  of  Carnival  249 

marked  by  lapse  of  time,  I  might  find  purpose  in 
my  falsity  and  skill  in  my  lying.  As  it  is,  the 
thing  ended  with  a  calm  simplicity,  and  the  emo- 
tions of  that  motor-drive  have  the  absurdity  of 
anticlimax. 

Michael  received  my  report  with  cold  attention. 
I  took  care  to  stress  the  suspicious  nature  of  the 
outbreak.  "It  is  a  prophetic  strike,"  I  said,  "for 
something  that  is  wanted  six  months  hence."  I 
then  proceeded  to  outline  the  risks  of  ignoring  the 
movement  and  the  credit  to  be  gained  by  a  timely 
gesture  on  the  lines  to  which,  poor  man,  he  was 
already  committed. 

When  I  had  finished,  "Am  I  expected  to  spend 
money  on  this  scheme?"  he  asked. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"And  to  whom  will  rents  be  paid?" 

"To  you  and  Barbara." 

"In  fact,  it  is  profitable."  He  pondered  in  si- 
lence. "I  don't  like  climbing  down.  They  will 
say  I  was  beaten." 

"Surely  they  will  praise  your  constructive 
philanthropy." 

"It  is  hardly  philanthropy  as  I  understand 
it,"  he  retorted  brusquely.  "I  am  asked  to 
allow  someone  else  to  build  houses  on  my  waste 


250  Privilege 

land  and  then  begged  to  receive  payment  in  the  form 
of  rent.  No,  no,  Dick.  It's  not  sense.  There's 
something   behind    it.     Where's  the  catch?" 

"You  are  too  inquisitive,"  I  said.  "As  a  matter 
of  fact  the  building  money  comes  from  Barbara. 
But  it's  a  secret." 

To  my  relief  he  laughed. 

'  Trying  a  little  flutter  on  her  own !  Good  luck 
to  her,  but  she  must  have  the  rents — and  the  col- 
lecting of  them.  In  that  case,  let  her  take  the 
land  and  welcome.    Why  didn't  she  ask  me?" 

"Don't  you  see,  Michael,  she  was  not  your  re- 
presentative; I  was.  Things  might  have  been 
arrangeable  another  way  and  then  this  would  not 
have  arisen.  As  it  fell  out,  I  concluded  there  was 
only  this  solution  possible  and  I  told  her  my 
opinion.  She  offered  to  finance  the  building,  on 
condition  that  I  tackled  you.     That's  all  about  it." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Go  ahead,  then.  So  long  as  I'm  not  bothered. 
And  many  thanks  for  going  down  there." 


To  the  same  bathos  I  attribute  the  uneventful 
history  of  the  months  that  followed.     A  fruit, 


The  End  of  Carnival  251 

luscious  when  unattainable,  drooped  to  my  hand, 
and  maybe  my  will  to  pluck  was  palsied  with 
sudden  scruple  or  the  prize,  once  within  reach, 
lost  its  lure.  And  yet  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  To  talk  of  scruple  at  that  eleventh  hour 
was  hypocrisy;  to  pretend  coolness,  clumsy  false- 
hood. Wherefore  I  am  driven  to  trace  the  tem- 
porary check  in  the  current  of  my  love  to  the 
flatness  of  the  Rodbury  crisis  which  leveled  other 
things  beside  itself,  and,  among  them,  the  pitch  of 
the  slope  down  which  flowed  Barbara's  life  and 
mine. 

Monica  was  duly  married  and  the  illustrated 
Press  broke  into  a  fanfare  of  photographs,  blather, 
and  snobbery.  She  was  "brilliant"  and  "beauti- 
ful" and  "piquante"  and  "mondaine."  Kol- 
oszvary  was  "gallant"  and  "handsome"  and 
"wealthy"  and  of  incredible  racial  antiquity. 
Those  of  us  who  could  not  avoid  the  honor,  were 
interviewed  and  snapshotted,  and  presented  to  the 
world  as  mentally  deficient  and  physically  absurd. 
The  only  alleviation  of  an  always  tedious  and 
sometimes  intolerable  experience  was  the  mis- 
fortune that  overtook  poor  Mary,  who,  grasping 
too  eagerly  at  the  opportunity  of  airing  her  un- 
usual views,  unloaded  onto  a  reporter  of  a  mam- 


252  Privilege 

moth  paper  such  vitriolic  opinions  of  the  society 
that  allowed  him  to  exist  at  all  that  he,  anxious 
to  avenge  himself  and  to  please  his  proprietors, 
published  over  Mary's  name  the  photograph  of 
an  under-dressed  lady  of  Hebraic  origin  and  headed 
his  interview  "Noblesse  Oblige:  Views  of  the 
Aristo  of  To-morrow." 

The  ceremony  over  we  retired  to  Whern,  until 
the  calls  of  the  season  took  Michael  and  Barbara 
to  London  once  again.  It  is  enough  to  say  that 
we  drifted  into  the  usual  idle  round  of  automatic 
gayety,  as  the  last  carnival  of  the  old  world  ran 
its  luxurious  and  heedless  way. 


CHAPTER  XI 

TREACHERY 


To  convert  a  purely  personal  chronicle  into  a 
commentary  on  England  in  war-time  is  within 
neither  my  intention  nor  my  capacity.  Many 
there  are  who  give  to  their  intimates  and  to  them- 
selves that  insignificance  in  daily  happenings  that 
is  proportionate  and  proper.  I,  to  my  shame,  am 
different.  Maybe  because  the  Bradens  have  for 
long  enough  been  persons  of  importance  in  their 
little  world,  it  is  instinctive  in  me  to  regard  events 
in  the  light  of  my  own  experience  and  of  the  ex- 
perience of  my  family.  The  calamity  of  August, 
191 4,  and  the  years  of  anxiety,  misery,  anger,  and 
pride  that  followed  it,  tested  our  very  beings  as 
they  tested  those  of  millions.  We  met  the  test 
in  our  several  and  different  ways  and  the  harmony 
and  discord  of  these  encounters  are  my  story 
because  they  were  for  me  the  story  of  the  war. 

253 


254  Privilege 

I  am  not  afraid  of  the  charge  of  superiority.  The 
critical  faculty  makes  the  onlooker;  and  the  on- 
looker, to  whom  are  afterwards  the  triumphs  of 
victory,  may  at  least  claim  the  satisfaction  of  his 
vantage-point  during  the  struggle.  How  I 
acquitted  myself  when,  far  on  during  the  torment 
of  war,  I  was  dragged  from  my  place  of  observa- 
tion and  called  upon  to  make  a  strange  and  ironic 
choice,  others  shall  judge;  if  they  will,  that  is— for 
the  choice  is  made  and  there  is  no  going  back. 
For  my  part  there  are  facts  to  be  recorded  and 
the  final  scenes  in  the  tragi-comedy  of  Whern. 

My  first  memory  is  of  the  great  south  terrace 
after  dinner  on  the  evening  when,  without  hope 
of  reprieve,  we  knew  that  the  old  world  had  been 
condemned  to  death.  Over  the  wooded  hills  and 
out  of  the  bland  passivity  of  summer  heat  some- 
thing foul  but  grandiose  had  been  wafted  into  our 
paradise.  To  a  few  it  was  stimulus  and  there  were 
fevered  faces  and  fevered  brains  among  the  party 
that  strolled  and  sat  in  the  luminous  twilight  of 
the  August  evening.  The  majority  were  gravely 
pale.  Among  the  prophecies,  laments,  and  exul- 
tations that  fluttered  along  the  silver  dusk  were 
two  silences — those  of  Michael  and  of  Barbara. 
He  listened,  immobile  and  expressionless,  to  the 


Treachery  255 

blustering  optimism  of  General  Lawlor,  to  the 
graceful  timidity  of  Mercia  Gledhowe,  to  Mary's 
angry  clamor  of  proletarian  veto.  Barbara  was 
differently  aloof.  An  afternoon  of  hard-played 
tennis  brought  her  to  dinner  radiant  with  exercise. 
Now,  in  the  rosy  fatigue  of  her  perfect  healthi- 
ness, she  let  no  public  happening  disturb  her 
serenity.  I  heard  Agatha  persecuting  her  aloof- 
ness. 

"Really,  Barbara,  you  shock  me!  Lying  there 
as  bold  as  brass  and  all  these  dreadful  things  going 
on  and  Heaven  alone  knows  what  coming!  But 
then  you  were  always  so  strong-minded.  I'm  a 
woman  and  not  ashamed  of  it,  whatever  Richard 
may  think.  Yes,  I  see  you" — turning  to  me — "and 
the  'foolish  little  Agatha'  look  in  your  nasty  eyes! 
Perhaps  you  can  stir  Barbara  to  some  sort  of 
interest  in  history!" 

Barbara  stretched  in  her  long  chair  and  gurgled 
happily : 

"What  am  I  to  do,  Agatha  darling?  I'm  so 
comfy,  and  my  head  is  too  thick  for  politics.  I 
can't  stop  their  old  war,  if  I  wanted  to.  Why  fuss 
before  one  need  ? ' ' 

Agatha  threw  out  her  hands. 

"Fuss!     Hearken  to  her!     Fuss  indeed!     I  al- 


256  Privilege 

ways  think  it  a  woman's  proudest  mission  to  dance 
before  the  conquering  hero — though,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I'm  not  so  slim  as  I  was,  and  the  prospect 
is  a  shade  intimidating — but  we  must  all  do  what 
in  us  lies.    Mustn't  we,  Richard?" 

She  shot  the  words  at  me  as  an  afterthought,  and 
I  had  a  horrid  vision  of  the  idiotic,  good-natured 
little  woman  spitted  absurdly  on  a  hostile  bayonet. 
For  a  moment  I  felt  that  it  would  be  like  Agatha 
to  meet  a  violent  end,  meet  it  trustfully  and 
merrily.  But  the  next  instant  I  told  myself  that 
the  fading  of  that  perpetual  babyhood  was 
unthinkable. 

"We  must,  indeed,  Agatha,"  I  replied  solemnly. 
"And  your  duty  and  mine  is  clearly  to  rouse 
Barbara  to  a  sense  of  her  responsibility.  To-mor- 
row after  breakfast  we  will  teach  her  to  knit  a 
tummy -band.  Then  you  can  go  and  rub  up  your 
eurhythmies,  and  I'll  buy  a  trumpet." 

"Dick  is  flippant,"  said  Barbara  lazily.  "Is  he 
over-moved  or  not  moved  at  all?" 

"Guess,"  I  replied,  but  she  shook  her  head 
drowsily  and  gazed  with  tranquil  eyes  into  the 
glimmering  distance. 

The  next  memory  is  Monica's  return.    A  little 


Treachery  257 

tired  about  the  eyes,  but  cool  and  fair  and  elegant, 
she  metaphorically  strolled  into  London  a  fortnight 
after  war  had  been  declared  with  the  easy  assur- 
ance of  one  accustomed  to  the  foreign  travel  of  a 
previous  existence.  "My  dear!  We'd  given  you 
up. ' ' — ' '  Was  it  very  awful  ? ' ' — ' '  How  wonderful  to 
get  through!" 

She  had  walked  unannounced  into  the  drawing- 
room  at  Cadogan  Square,  and  the  exclamations  of 
assembled  relatives  sang  like  bullets  past  her  head. 
I  was  not  present,  but  Barbara  told  me  afterwards 
that  the  languid  disgust  on  Monica's  face  was 
that  of  a  greyhound  attacked  by  moths.  "She 
brushed  us  out  of  her  eyes,  Dick,  and  asked  for 
tea."  Of  course  there  was  attitude  in  the  com- 
posure, and  after  dinner  we  were  given  a  few 
details  of  what  must  have  been  a  sensational  jour- 
ney from  the  Black  Forest  to  Rotterdam. 

"Surely  Switzerland  would  have  been  nearer?" 
asked  Michael. 

"Dear  innocent!  Don't  you  realize  I  am  an 
Hungarian  ?  The  Germans  did  their  best  for  me — 
the  French  would  have  been  impossible.  It's  only 
thanks  to  that  old  lamb  at  The  Hague  that  I  got 
into  England  at  all.  The  Entente  is  so  dreadfully 
warlike." 


258  Privilege 

Michael  looked  grave.  He  had  forgotten  his 
sister  was  an  alien.    She  divined  his  thoughts. 

"Do  look  at  poor  Micky !  He  thinks  I'll  disgrace 
him.  Don't  worry,  dear  brother;  I'm  not  going  to 
live  here,  and  I'll  be  fearfully  discreet.  If  I  knew 
any  German  secrets  I'd  tell  you  them  and  perhaps 
they'd  make  you  a  field  marshal.     But  I  don't." 

"And  the  husband?"  I  asked  with  a  little 
diffidence. 

"Fighting  like  a  tiger,  I  expect,"  said  Monica 
calmly.  "I  asked  him  not  to  fight  England,  but 
he  seemed  to  think  it  might  be  unavoidable.  So 
violent,  all  these  battles.  One  never  knows. 
Well,  well,  I  must  get  a  house  and  do  the  cloistered 
wife.  Frightfully  mediaeval  we  are  in  Hungary. 
Tapestry  and  serfs  and  Lord  knows  what.  I  am 
surprised  Putz  didn't  lock  me  up  and  keep  the 
key  like  those  people  in  Hewlett's  books  or  the  De- 
cameron. .  .  .  Think  of  it  with  the  modern  out- 
line !  .  .  .  Do  you  like  my  dress,  Barbara  ?  Got 
it  in  Berlin  coming  through.      Viennese.     .    .    ." 

And  then  nothing  for  months,  until  from  the 
dull  unhappiness  of  increasing  strain  stand  out 
the  few  vivid  days  of  Anthony's  first  leave.  The 
routine  of  war  work  was  settling  into  its  stride. 


Treachery  259 

Michael,  in  red  tabs,  worked  early  and  late  in 
secret  magnificence  for  the  General  Staff;  Barbara 
had  committees  and  more  committees;  she  had 
grown  sullen  and  heavy-eyed,  and  I  guessed  at 
a  rising  resentment  against  this  tyranny  of  fate 
under  which  our  generation  was  blindly  struggling. 
Mary,  whom  we  seldom  saw,  had  plunged  into 
pacificism,  and  emerged  at  long  intervals,  menacing 
and  dogmatic,  from  obscure  haunts  of  internation- 
alist intrigue.  I  myself  did  the  odd  jobs  that  war 
leaves  over  for  intelligent  cripples  who  can  afford 
to  take  honorary  work;  there  are  plenty.  We 
slaved,  all  of  us,  to  make  thought  impossible. 
Social  gayety  became  a  speciality  of  the  parvenu; 
and  it  was  something  of  an  effort  properly  to 
satisfy  Anthony's  desire  for  entertainment.  For 
its  poignancy  and  not  for  its  detail,  I  remember 
that  week  of  merry-making;  indeed  I  find  it  hard 
to  say  what  actually  occurred.  The  days  flickered 
by  and  into  the  darkness  from  which  he  had  come 
Anthony  vanished  once  more.  At  the  door  of  the 
Pullman  he  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of  his  tunic. 

'I  say,  old  man,  if — it's  all  my  eye,  of  course, 
and  I'll  be  as  right  as  rain — but  if  anything  hap- 
pens, just  give  this  to  Vi  Stretton  and  tell  her  I'd 
be  awfully  grateful  if  she'd  just  freeze  on  to  it. 


260  Privilege 

Beastly  sorry  to  bore  you  with  it.    Sure  you  don't 
mind?     Thanks  awfully.     Cheerio." 

Even  now  I  recall  the  heartache  of  that  moment 
and  the  brave  contrast  between  laughing  mouth 
and  sad  violet  eyes  when  two  days  later  I  met  the 
girl  herself.  I  say  "even  now,"  because  nothing 
did  happen  to  Anthony,  and  if  he  and  Vi  ever  meet 
in  these  days  it  is  as  mere  acquaintances.  There 
were  similar  romances  on  most  of  Anthony's 
leaves,  but  of  no  one  do  I  retain  any  memory,  so 
erratic  is  my  emotionalism  and  so  out  of  tune  with 
the  monstrous  realities  of  war. 

After  this  the  dun  monotony  of  war  time  lies 
for  long  enough  unbroken  and  without  landmark 
in  my  memory.  Indeed,  I  recall  nothing  during 
the  two  years  that  followed  that  first  winter  and 
spring  of  shadows — nothing,  that  is,  with  signifi- 
cant bearing  on  the  fate  of  our  family.  With  the 
end  of  the  two  years  came  Michael's  dinner-party 
from  which  sprang  such  bitter  consequence. 


II 


It  is  necessary  to  explain  that  Monica,  at  the 
argent  advice  of  her  friends  and  in  deference  to 


Treachery  261 

Michael's  implied  rather  than  spoken  wish,  had 
held  to  her  decision  not  to  live  in  London  and  had 
gone  to  Ireland  on  a  protracted  visit.  Towards 
the  end  of  191 6,  however,  her  never  exemplary- 
patience  gave  out.  One  morning  at  my  office  a 
familiar  voice  on  the  telephone  summoned  me  to 
lunch  at  the  Savoy.    Monica  forestalled  criticism. 

"It's  no  earthly  use,  Richard.  I  will  not  stop 
in  that  dismal  hole  any  longer.  I'll  call  myself 
what  you  like,  but  henceforward  it  is  London  for 
little  Isolde  and  nowhere  else." 

I  attempted  remonstrance,  but  she  waved  me 
aside  and  began  to  chatter  with  her  old  brilliant 
flippancy. 

"How's  Tony?" 

"He's  got  a  staff  job,"  I  said.  "Liaison  with 
the  French  of  some  kind." 

"Does  he  know  any  French  now?    He  didn't." 

"Not  much,"  I  admitted,  "but  probably  it 
doesn't  matter." 

"All  the  same — chirpy  little  liaison  it  must  be; 
a  series  of  units  blanches.  Like  St.  What's-her- 
name  and  the  thingummy." 

To  follow  Monica  into  history  or  mythology  was 
always  rash.  I  changed  the  subject.  Lunch 
flickered  to  an  end. 


262  Privilege 

"Now,  you're  coming  along  to  agents  to  impress 
them  with  my  respectability." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders  and  took  the  afternoon 
to  help  her  house-hunt. 

Once  established  in  a  pleasant  flat  near  Victoria, 
Monica  "Braden"  was  not  long  in  remaking  her 
old  mark  on  the  London  that  formerly  had  known 
her  well.  Under  the  seasonable  guise  of  war 
charities,  canteen  concerts,  officers'  club  celebra- 
tions, she  resumed  with  all  her  old  vigor  the  life 
of  excitement  and  shrill  gayety  that  she  loved. 
Of  course,  the  key  was  lower;  but  the  melody  was 
restless  as  ever,  restless  and  penetrating.  Gradu- 
ally it  began  to  attract  unfavorable  notice.  There 
was  a  court-martial  case  that  teased  newspaper 
curiosity  and  a  reference  to  the  "irresponsibility 
of  selfish  women"  lodged  itself  like  irritant  grit 
in  the  cogwheels  of  the  Yellow  Press.  They 
screeched  noisily.  Allusions  became  frequent. 
Then,  in  some  idiot  revue,  the  song  success  had  a 
refrain  beginning :  "Moni-caa  from  Mona-coe!  .  .  . 
People  detected  an  inference  more  deliberate  than 
was  originally  intended,  but  the  librettist,  in  a 
catchpenny  moment,  added  a  verse  which  out- 
gossiped  gossip.  It  happened  that  Michael,  after 
a  semi-official  dinner,  was  taken  by  several  brother 


Treachery  263 

officers  to  the  last  hour  of  this  very  show.  They 
entered  the  theater  as  the  song  was  in  progress 
and  the  proudest  Braden  of  them  all  had  the 
cruel  mortification  of  hearing  what  was  only  too 
palpably  an  insult  to  his  sister,  screamed  in  rag- 
time by  a  strident  female  whose  private  connection 
with  the  aristocracy  was  a  commonplace  (to 
within  a  fiver  of  the  actual  amount)  in  every  Lon- 
don club.  Charlie  Easterham  was  with  him  and, 
noticing  his  disgusted  stupor,  had  the  wit  to  warn 
me  by  telephone  immediately  the  performance 
ended. 

"He's  taken  it  damned  hard,  Braden,"  said  the 
kindly  fellow  over  the  line.  ' '  Give  an  eye  to  him 
when  he  gets  in.  Why  the  hell  was  I  such  a  fool 
as  to  forget  the  song  was  in  that  show?  Always 
was  a  silly  ass.  Remember  I  said  nothing.  Good- 
bye." 

Michael  was  dead  pale  when  he  came  home.  I 
heard  his  key  and  hurried  to  intercept  him.  It 
had  been  a  half -hour  of  quick  thinking.  I  remem- 
bered Monica's  words:  "I  never  bend,  Dick;  I 
break."  And  Michael's,  on  the  occasion  of  that 
fantastic  interview  in  the  study  at  Whern:  "I 
have  worked  so  hard  to  remove  the  stain  from 
Whern,  and  another  scandal  now   ...     As  head 


264  Privilege 

of  the  family  I  can  order  its  goings."  Well  then, 
he  should  have  the  chance.  I  would  forestall  his 
criticism  with  my  own. 

"Come  and  talk  a  bit,  Michael,"  I  said.  "I 
never  see  you  nowadays  and  I  have  something  to 
say.  You  look  dead  beat.  Do  you  good  to  have 
a  change  of  subject." 

The  hypocrisy  succeeded.  He  followed  me 
quietly  to  the  study. 

"It's  Monica  I'm  bothered  about,"  I  began,  and 
ignored  the  flickering  glance  that  reached  me  from 
under  his  tired,  drooping  lids.  "She's  playing  the 
fool  because  she  feels  on  the  loose,  and  perhaps  a 
little  because  she  thinks  the  ice  is  a  bit  thin.  You 
see?  One  increases  speed.  It's  not  fair  on  her  or 
on  us.  It's  unfair  to  you  most  of  all.  Would  it 
not  be  possible  to  bring  her  in  more,  to  give  her 
the  support  of  the  family  rein  downhill,  and — er — 
the  check  of  the  family  bit  on  the  level?  She's  in 
a  difficult  position,  and  is  the  last  person  to  use 
caution  or  to  know  when  there  is  danger!" 

He  compressed  his  lips  and  brooded  at  the  floor. 
Then,  with  one  of  his  rapid  looks. 

"You've  heard  it  too,  perhaps?" 

"Heard  it?    What?    Gossip,  you  mean?" 

He  shrugged  wearily,  and,  to  my  joy,  decided 


Treachery  265 

I  was  too  uninstructed  to  deserve  enlighten- 
ment. 

"Oh,  nothing.  It  doesn't  matter.  This  plan  of 
yours,  however  .  .  .  What  do  you  actually 
suggest?" 

I  thought  a  minute  or  two. 

"Well — as  a  start — could  you  do  a  little  enter- 
taining and — and  have  her  there.  Besides," 
warming  to  my  speech,  "you  are  overworking. 
Barbara  is  worried.  It  would  be  so  much  better 
to  be  at  home  more  regularly  for  dinner,  to  see 
people   .    .    . " 

He  smiled  his  contemptuous  smile. 

"As  you  like,  brother.  I'll  give  it  a  trial,  anyway. 
A  piece  of  paper —  Thank  you.  We  will  make 
out  a  few  lists  of  dinner  guests." 

And  that  was  the  origin  of  the  dinner-party. 
That  the  idea  was  mine  is  perhaps  my  most  tragic 
memory.  And  I  meant  so  well.  The  party  was 
not  a  large  one,  but  it  represented  the  inner  ring 
of  administration.  Naturally  talk  was  all  of  the 
war  and  of  the  political  crisis.  With  the  exception 
of  Monica,  the  women  were  well  known  to  each 
other  and  to  the  men  present,  as  of  the  world 
that  regards  its  very  dreams  as  confidential.  As  for 
Monica,  she  was  accepted  as  Whern's  sister,  and 


266  Privilege 

her  recent  notoriety  had  not  reached  the  ears  of 
those  people  who,  being  newspaper  copy  in  them- 
selves, never  read  the  lighter  Press  at  all.  Conse- 
quently with  the  withdrawal  of  the  servants,  there 
was,  little  check  on  conversation.  Policy — naval, 
military,  and  political — was  freely  discussed.  As 
stimulus  and  for  the  interest  of  its  talk  the  evening 
was  an  undeniable  success. 

Not  a  fortnight  later  came  the  catastrophe.  A 
man  I  know  well — an  official  high  up  in  the  Postal 
Censorship — telephoned  me  to  go  and  see  him. 
In  his  high,  light  room  near  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields 
I  found  him  pacing  with  anxious  urgency  the 
spotted  carpet  supplied  to  civil  servants  of  a 
certain  eminence. 

"Braden,"  he  broke  out  as  soon  as  the  door  was 
shut,  "something  rotten  has  happened;  something 
I'd  give  any  money  to  know  nothing  of  at  all. 
Read  that." 

He  handed  me  a  buff  file.  It  contained  two 
sheets  of  minute  paper  covered  with  various  com- 
ments, and — I  nearly  dropped  the  file  on  the  floor 
in  my  astonishment — eight  sides  of  Monica's  lilac 
note  paper  filled  with  her  unmistakable  hand- 
writing. My  friend  continued  to  pace  the  floor. 
I  read  the  letter;  I  read  the  minutes.     Then  I 


Treachery  267 

placed  the  file  on  the  table  and  stood  with  the 
awful  feeling  that  the  bottom  had  just  fallen  out 
of  the  world.  For  the  letter,  which  was  written 
in  German,  began  "Allerliebstes  Putzschen,"  and 
detailed  with  vivid  accuracy  the  conversation  of 
that  fatal  party.  The  envelope,  tagged  with  the 
other  papers  in  the  file,  bore  an  English  stamp  with 
a  London  postmark,  and  was  addressed  to  a  Fraii- 
lein  Loosli  in  Aargau.  But  it  was  a  detail  of  one 
of  the  minutes  (in  themselves  they  were  all  purely 
official  commentary  on  this  terrible  enclosure)  that 
completed  my  despair,  for  there  I  read  the  signa- 
ture of  the  examiner  who  had  opened  the  letter, 
and  that  examiner  was  Moffat. 

One  gleam  of  hope  remained.  The  signature 
was  an  illegible  scrawl  that  only  my  intimacy 
could  interpret  as  "Nishka,"  the  writer's  pet  name 
of  the  moment.  There  was  no  address  on  the 
paper.  Maybe  identification  could  be  baulked. 
But  then  my  presence  in  the  matter  was  unex- 
plained. Why  was  I  sent  for?  Just  possibly  as 
Michael's  brother;  just  conceivably  as  an  un- 
official channel  to  the  man  at  whose  house  the 
indiscretion  had  come  into  being,  for  there  were 
indications  in  the  letter.    .    .    . 

Merrick  was  now  staring  out  of  the  window,  and 


268  Privilege 

I  challenged  his  unhappy  back  for  guidance  in  my 
dilemma.  As  I  watched  him,  hope  faded.  Clearly 
a  personal  connection  had  been  traced;  he  would 
not  stand  thus  miserably  embarrassed  in  the 
presence  of  a  colleague;  I  was  here  as  his  friend 
and  as  brother  to  one  guilty  of 

"Is  there  anything  further?"  I  asked. 

He  turned  abruptly,  and  his  eyes  were  heavy 
with  distress. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly.  "I'm  sorrier  than  I  can 
say,  Braden.  There  is  this  private  note  from  the 
head  of  the  subsection." 

From  the  buff  envelope  I  drew  two  sheets  of 
official  paper. 

Mr.  Merrick, 

Examiner  791  has  requested  me  to  bring  to  your 
personal  notice  the  enclosed  minute  prepared  by  him 
and  dealing  with  E/4623/25.    I  have  nothing  to  add. 

H.  WlNTHROP,  D.A.C. 

The  first  glimpse  of  the  second  sheet  all  but 
upset  once  more  my  hardly  regained  control,  for 
I  recognized  Moffat's  writing.     I  read  as  follows: 

Mr.  Winthrop, 

With  reference  to  E/4623/25  addressed  to  Fraulein 
Loosli,  Aargau,  I  happened  through  private  knowledge 


Treachery  269 

to  possess  a  clue  to  the  writer.  I  have  made  inquiries 
and  suggest  that  official  investigation  be  directed 
towards  No.  — ,  Ashley  Gardens.  The  flat  is  let 
furnished  to  a  lady  whose  husband  is  fighting  with 
the  Hungarian  Army.  Her  real  name  is  the  Countess 
Koloszvary,  although  she  is  at  present  using  her 
maiden  name,  and  is  well  known  in  Society  as  the 
Hon.  Monica  Braden.  May  I  ask  you  to  bring  this 
information  personally  to  the  notice  of  Mr.  Merrick? 
For  obvious  reasons  I  am  not  attaching  it  to  the  other 
papers. 

B.  Moffat  (Examiner  791) 


Perhaps  the  thought  of  the  man's  triumphant 
smile  as  he  wrote  these  lines  braced  me  to  meet 
calamity.  I  felt  a  sudden  pity  for  Merrick  in  his 
cruel  quandary,  but  of  personal  embarrassment 
or  confusion  no  atom  remained. 

"Well,  Merrick," — he  started,  and  I  suppose 
my  tone  was  almost  brisk — "and  what  next?" 

"  Is  it  true  ? "  he  asked  hoarsely.  ' '  Is  what  that 
fellow  writes  possible?" 

My  pity  increased.  The  poor  man  was  stricken 
to  the  heart  while  I,  whom  the  matter  concerned 
so  nearly,  was  coldly  practical. 

"It's  perfectly  true,"  I  replied  gently.  "The 
writing  is  unmistakable.  Also  I  recognize  the 
source  from  which  the  information  came.     It  was 


27°  Privilege 

splendid  of  you  to  let  me  see  this;  I  am — we  shall 
all  be — most  grateful."  Then,  after  a  moments' 
pause:  "I  suppose  the  file — and  this  minute — go 
forward  to-day?" 

"They  must,"  he  muttered.  "If  I  could  lose 
them,  I  would.  If  the  whole  place  were  burnt  in 
the  night,  I'd  be  silly  with  joy.  But  they  must  go 
on;  nothing  is  lost  here.  I  have  kept  them  two 
days.  I  can  keep  them  till  to-morrow,  but  not 
longer.  It  is  up  to  you  to  see  that  nothing  gets  out." 

I  nodded  slowly  and  doubtfully. 

"I  must  try,"  I  said,  and  took  up  my  hat. 
"Good-bye,  Merrick.  Once  more,  thank  you  a 
thousand  times.  I  suppose  war  is  meant  for  the 
mortification  of  the  individual.  I'll  let  you  know 
what  happens  our  end.    Perhaps  you  could ? " 

' '  Of  course, ' '  he  said  gruffly .    ' '  Good-bye. ' ' 

In  the  street  I  stood  and  pondered  my  next 
move.  Influence  in  favor  of  secrecy  could  be 
exerted  without  difficulty;  I  was  not  afraid  of 
galling  publicity  from  the  side  of  the  high  officials. 
Michael  was  too  good  a  colleague  not  to  deserve 
every  consideration.  But  there  were  dangerous 
complications.  Moffatt  for  instance  ...  I 
had  not  forgotten  his  bitterness.    Was  he  the  man 


Treachery  271 

to  lose  an  opportunity  for  revenge?  He  had  had 
ample  provocation,  and  in  such  moods  the  Official 
Secrets  Act  was  mere  formalism.  Also,  there  were 
methods  of  evasion  that  involved  no  breach  of 
faith.  And  then  Monica  herself.  Why,  in  God's 
name,  had  she  committed  this  sudden  folly?  Or 
was  it  not  so  sudden  ?  I  caught  my  breath.  What 
proof  was  there  that  she  had  not  done  this  before  ? 
With  a  sudden  grimness,  I  determined  she  should 
at  least  not  do  it  again.  Calling  a  taxi,  I  drove  to 
Ashley  Gardens. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  and  Monica  was  dress- 
ing to  go  out  to  lunch.  In  response  to  my  urgent 
message  she  came  into  the  drawing-room  with  her 
hat  in  one  hand,  her  sunshade  and  gloves  in  the 
other. 

"You  seem  in  great  fuss,  Dick,"  she  remarked 
amiably.  "I've  got  to  go  out  in  a  second.  What's 
up?" 

In  the  taxi  I  had  rehearsed  a  dozen  ways  of 
broaching  the  subject.  Now  that  the  moment 
had  arrived  I  forgot  them  all.  She  was  so  cool 
and  serene  and  beautiful,  that  the  whole  story 
seemed  melodrama,  and  I  myself  an  actor  con- 
demned to  play  a  sensational  part  in  the  crude 
daylight  of  normal  existence.    Momentarily  dumb, 


iT*  Privilege 

I  stood  and  regarded  her  vacantly.  She  frowned 
with  impatient  perplexity,  but  must  have  guessed 
that  I  was  not  merely  fooling,  for  her  voice,  when 
she  spoke,  had  a  forced  note  in  its  levity. 

"Well?  For  heaven's  sake,  man,  don't  glare  at 
me  like  that!  'Mr.  Braden  must  see  you,  miss.' 
Here  I  am.  Is  this  merely  the  search  for  the  pic- 
turesque?   Am  I  a  peepshow,  or  is  it  a  bet?" 

With  an  effort  I  decided  on  the  line  to  follow. 

"It  is  this,"  I  said  gravely.  "There  is  going  to 
be  trouble,  and  you'll  be  in  it  to  the  neck.  I  have 
come  to  warn  you  not  to  be!  Do  you  understand? 
The  only  chance  for  you  and  for  all  of  us  is  to  tell 
the  truth.  In  return  for  the  warning  I  should 
like  to  ask  one  question " 

Her  bewilderment  was  certainly  genuine. 

"The  man's  mad!"  she  said.  "My  dear  Rich- 
ard, what  in  God's  name  are  you  talking  about?" 

"I  have  just  read  a  letter  from  you  to  your 
husband,  and  I  was  in  the  Postal  Censor's  office 
when  I  read  it.  'Fraulein  Loosli!'  Upon  my 
word,  Monica,  I  couldn't  believe  you  capable  of 
such  idiocy.    Haven't  you  realized " 

The  change  in  her  face  silenced  me.  The  eyes 
glowed  with  a  curious  bitter  flame;  the  mouth 
tightened,  as  Michael's  so  often  did,  into  a  thin, 


Treachery  273 

straight  line.  Slowly  the  color  faded  from  her 
cheeks.  Then,  with  a  little  wriggle  of  her  shoul- 
ders, she  threw  back  her  head. 

"I  should  worry!"  she  said  defiantly.  Turning 
away,  she  threw  her  hat  on  to  the  sofa  and  walked 
nervously  towards  her  open  bureau.  From  the 
pigeon  holes  I  could  see  protruding  sheets  of  that 
accursed  lilac  notepaper.  She  spoke  again  and 
her  back  was  turned  towards  me. 

"Postal  Censorship?  How  curious.  'Some- 
body blundered,'  as  the  poet  says.  You  may  well 
think  me  mad.  Never  mind,  others  will  think 
worse  of  me  than  that.  Let  them;  I  don't  care." 
After  a  moment  she  resumed.  "So  I  must  tell  the 
truth?  Evidently.  Most  of  it,  in  any  case. 
Thank  you  for  the  tip.  You  had  a  question  to  ask. 
What  is  it?" 

"It  is  more  or  less  answered,"  I  replied.  "I 
will  not  trouble  you  with  it." 

Like  a  sudden  wave  the  full  possibilities  of  the 
catastrophe  broke  over  me. 

"How  you  could!"  I  broke  out.  "Do  you  real- 
ize what  this  will  mean  to  Michael  ?  We  shall  all 
be  branded,  but  he — well,  it  may  kill  him.  His 
bitterest  enemy  could  not  wish  him  a  more  cruel 
misfortune!" 

18 


274  Privilege 

"Curse  me,  Dick;  call  me  every  evil  name. 
There  will  be  many  to  support  you  before  long. 
Perhaps  I  am  a  little  disappointed;  perhaps  I 
expect  from  you  something  nearer  understanding. 
As  for  Michael,  it  is  hard  on  him.  I  admit  that. 
But  times  are  hard,  and — well,  I  am  not  in  love 
with  Michael,  you  see.  Do  you  understand  now  ? 
—just  a  little?" 

She  faced  me  quickly  and  her  cheeks  were  ivory 
pale.  She  was  suddenly  older,  and  there  was  a 
strange  pity  in  my  heart  for  her  loneliness  and  for 
the  gentle  passion  of  her  last  words. 

"Perhaps — a  little,"  I  said  softly,  and  hurried 
away. 

ill 

Barbara  heard  me  through  in  silence.     Then: 

"WhoisthisMoffatt?" 

I  told  her  what  I  knew,  and  added: 
He  has  justification,  you  see.    She  treated  him 
badly  when  she  was  up,  and " 

"Now  he  kicks  her  when  she's  down!  Very 
pretty." 

"Hardly,  Barbara.  Be  reasonable.  She  was 
not  down  until  he  contrived  it." 

"Zut!     They'd   have   traced  her  without  his 


Treachery  275 

sneaking  little  help!  Spare  me  your  casuistry, 
Dick.    The  man's  a  swine,  and  you  know  it!" 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  Continued  argument 
was  useless. 

"Have  it  your  own  way.  Our  job  is  to  decide 
what  to  do  next.    There  is  Michael.    ..." 

"There  is  also  Monica,"  replied  Barbara  tartly. 
"She  must  leave  town  at  once.  I'll  take  her  to 
Whern.  It's  shut  up  and  she  can  stay  there  in  a 
wilderness  of  dust-sheets  with  old  Mrs.  Marlowe. 
No  one  will  be  an  atom  the  wiser.  Thank  heaven 
I  resisted  the  snobbery  of  this  hospital  business! 
The  house  can  be  useful  instead  of  merely  a  monu- 
ment to  our  patriotism." 

She  spoke  so  bitterly  that  I  looked  at  her  in 
surprise. 

'You  take  treachery  calmly,  Barbara." 

Perhaps  there  was  a  tinge  of  the  sneer  in  my 
voice.    She  turned  on  me  with  passion. 

' '  Damn  your  cliches !  Treachery!  She  has  stood 
up  for  herself  and  her  man,  and  I  admire  her  for  it." 

"Even  if,  incidentally,  she  kills  your  man?" 

With  a  little  catch  of  the  breath  she  stared  at 
me  in  savage  silence.  I  felt  obscurely  that  she 
might  hit  me  in  the  face,  but  the  next  moment 
she  bowed  her  head  and  walked  slowly  away. 


276  Privilege 

"I  might  retort  cruelly,  Dick,"  she  said  slowly, 
"but  we  must  not  quarrel  again  at  this  point. 
They  need  help — both  of  them.  I  am  sorry  I 
was  rude.  Do  you  agree  that  she  should  go  to 
Whern?" 

"I  agree  that  she  must  leave  town,  but  whether 
Whern  is  the  best  .  .  .  Michael  would  be 
bound  to  know.    .    . 

"True.  Well,  I  will  take  her  there  at  once,  and 
she  can  leave  in  a  day  or  two  if  necessary.  By  the 
way,  you  did  not  tell  me  how  the  letter  came  into 
the  post?" 

"I  can  only  guess  at  present.  The  Swiss  'bag' 
is  the  most  likely  explanation.  She  is  intimate  with 
one  of  the  attaches  at  the  Legation.  A  careless 
mistake — the  letters  wrongly  sorted — it  might 
easily  happen." 

Barbara  nodded  sadly. 

"Poor,  poor  child!"  she  whispered.  "And  poor 
all  of  us  .    .    .    !" 

' '  Let  us  at  least  be  thankful  we  are  spared  pub- 
licity," I  said.  "There  are  compensations  in  social 
influence — if  you  have  it." 

"You  are  certain  nothing  can  get  out?" 

I  could  not  meet  the  searching  query  in  her 
eyes. 


Treachery  277 

"No,"    I    admitted   reluctantly.      "I    am   not 
certain.    But  with  any  luck  .    . 


IV 


Unfortunately  even  luck  failed  us.  Reviewing 
past  events  from  this  vantage-point  of  my  obscure 
but  at  least  stable  present,  I  see  that  chance  had 
set  steadily  against  us  from  the  date  of  the  Rod- 
bury  strike.  Possibly  the  highest  point  of  our 
eleventh-hour  recovery  predated  even  that  episode; 
certainly  from  then  onward  our  history  as  a  dy- 
nasty is  the  history  of  an  ebbing  tide,  each  wavelet 
seeking  frantically  to  overstep  its  predecessor,  now 
and  again  with  success,  but  in  the  main  with  a 
failure  that  became  momentarily  more  evident. 

Glancing  through  the  last  night's  debate  in 
The  Times  on  the  morning  following  my  conver- 
sations just  recorded,  my  eye  fell  on  a  start- 
ling caption:  Countess  Koloszvary.  With  a 
sudden  sinking  of  the  heart  I  read  the  brief 
paragraph.  One  of  the  ' '  patriotic  Socialist ' '  mem- 
bers had  asked  the  Home  Secretary  whether,  in 
view  of  the  strict  measures  in  force  against  alien 
enemies  in  Great  Britain,  he  was  aware  that  the 
wife   of   an  Hungarian   nobleman  was   living   in 


278  Privilege 

London,  using  her  maiden  name,  and  allowed  to 
go  about  unhindered,  and  whether,  if  the  Countess 
Koloszvary  were  favored  with  this  liberty,  similar 
indulgence  might  not  be  extended  to  humbler  folk 
in  a  like  position  who  had  not  the  advantage  of 
her  aristocratic  connections.  The  Home  Secretary 
in  reply  reminded  the  Hon.  member  that  the  lady 
was  an  Englishwoman  and  that  the  authorities 
were  fully  alive  to  her  position  with  regard  to  her 
husband's  nationality.  The  Hon.  member  de- 
manded why,  in  that  case,  she  should  feel  it  ad- 
visable to  use  her  maiden  name.  "I  expect," 
said  the  Home  Secretary  with  his  usual  amiability, 
"that  she  finds  the  spelling  easier  for  shopping 
purposes."     (Laughter.) 

The  incident  was  trivial  enough.  A  mere  coin- 
cidence perhaps.  But  I  was  disturbed  and  during 
the  day  was  haunted  by  the  possible  appearance 
of  further  Parliamentary  trouble. 

It  was  not  long  in  coming.  The  very  next 
morning  when,  drawn  by  a  strange  and  terrifying 
curiosity,  I  turned  to  the  report  of  the  Commons 
debate  I  fell  immediately  on  a  question  to  the 
Home  Secretary  (addressed  this  time  by  an  ob- 
scure member  of  the  small  Radical  Pacifist  group) 
to  some  such  effect  as  the  following:    "Was  it  a 


Treachery  279 

fact  that  the  Countess  Koloszvary  was  a  sister  of 
Viscount  Whern,  and  if  so,  did  the  Government 
feel  it  in  accordance  with  their  warlike  principles 
that  a  responsible  War  Office  official  should  be 
connected  by  marriage  with  an  enemy  alien?" 
The  Home  Secretary  replied  to  the  first  part  of 
the  question  in  the  affirmative;  the  latter  point, 
however,  he  was  sorry  to  confess,  escaped  him 
entirely.  "The  purpose  of  the  question  was  to 
discover  whether  the  views  of  the  Government 
were  so  far  modified  as  to  entitle  them  to  the 
support  of  members  hitherto  opposed  to  their 
policy,"  explained  the  inquirer.  "I  hope  not," 
replied  the  Rt.  Hon.  gentleman.     (Laughter.) 

But  that  was  not  all.  Half  a  column  further 
down  a  bellicose  Slavophil  asked  for  a  positive 
assurance  that  the  Government  were  not  intrigu- 
ing for  a  separate  peace  with  Austria-Hungary. 
Not  only  was  there  a  suggestion  of  some  such 
intrigue  in  this  happening  and  in  that,  but  the 
recently  admitted  fact  that  an  officer  in  the  confi- 
dence of  the  Army  Council  was  brother-in-law  to 
a  Magyar  aristocrat  seemed  to  make  it  possible 
for  Ministers  to  be  in  personal  and  unofficial  touch 
with  an  enemy  as  bitter  and  as  shamelessly  mili- 
tarist as  the  Prussians  themselves. 


280  Privilege 

I  did  not  trouble  to  read  the  answer.  There 
was  no  further  doubt  in  my  mind  that  these  ques- 
tions were  inspired.  The  third  one  was  particu- 
larly unconvincing.  The  member  was  a  practiced 
Parliamentarian,  and  his  reference  to  the  Army 
Council  was  too  naive  to  be  anything  but  a  sham. 

It  was  one  of  the  worst  mornings  I  ever  spent. 
Not  only  was  I  now  positive  that  Moffatt  and  his 
friends  had  taken  this  means  of  evading  a  breach 
of  the  Secrets  Act  and  were  engineering  a  Parlia- 
mentary agitation  against  Monica,  but  I  suspected 
that  by  now  Michael  would,  in  all  likelihood,  have 
been  officially  advised  of  the  fatal  letter.  Every 
ring  on  the  telephone  meant  panic.  By  three 
o'clock  I  was  incapable  of  further  nervous  reaction, 
and  it  was  with  a  helpless  calm  that  I  saw  the 
door  open  and  Michael  walk  into  the  room.  He 
came  straight  to  the  table  and  sat  on  the  corner 
with  an  odd  jauntiness. 

"I'm  finished,  Dick,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  you 
know  all  about  this  letter  business?" 

His  smile  had  the  wry  falsity  of  despair.  I  was 
frightened  for  his  mental  balance.  And  why 
should  he  assume  that  I  knew  what  had  been  until 
now  hidden  from  himself?  Did  he  suspect  com- 
plicity ?    With  the  shameful  foolishness  of  a  small 


Treachery  2Sl 

boy  detected  in  a  blundering  duplicity  I  mumbled 
an  affirmative. 

He  continued  to  swing  his  leg,  and  his  lips 
seemed  to  congeal  into  a  grin  of  rage.  I  roused 
myself  to  break  the  spell. 

"I  know,"  I  said,  "because  Merrick  told  me 
confidentially  before  he  sent  the  matter  further. 
I  have  been  thinking  and  hoping  ...  It  was 
useless  to  tell  you.  Besides  I  was  hardly  free  to 
speak.     But  as  for  being  'finished'   .    .    ." 

"It's  true  of  course?"  he  queried  sharply. 

I  nodded. 

"I  saw  the  letter." 

"And  Monica?" 

"And  Monica." 

There  was  silence.  Suddenly  he  sprang  off  the 
table  and  began  walking  quickly  up  and  down  the 
room.  I  felt  the  tension  relax;  was  the  Michael 
that  I  knew  coming  to  life  again?  Not  yet.  He 
began  to  mutter  half  to  himself,  half  aloud. 

"I  hope  she's  satisfied!  I  hope  she's  satisfied 
now!  The  family  is  done  for — shamed — utterly 
finished.  And  to  think  of  the  end  coming  through 
treachery ! ' ' 

He  swung  round  on  me  and  cried  out  in  anguish : 
'What  have  I  done,  Dick,  to  deserve  this?    I 


282  Privilege 

tried  and  tried.  .  .  .  And  the  spying  was  done 
at  my  very  table " 

This  time  the  fit  had  spent  itself.  The  next 
minute  he  had  recovered  his  usual  melancholy 
austerity,  and,  with  it,  the  hesitations  of  his  sensi- 
tive and  complex  nature. 

"I  have  to  consider  what  to  do — personally,  I 
mean.  So  far  they  oppose  my  going  to  France; 
to  me  that  seemed  the  way  out.  Would  it  be 
running  away,  Dick?  I  find  it  hard  to  know; — 
and  I  am  tired.  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind  as  I 
used  to.  Perhaps  I  should  ignore  the  whole 
affair?  .  .  .  She  must  pay  for  her  crime,  but 
why  should  I  suffer?  And  Barbara?  And  all  of 
us?" 

"Let  us  talk  it  over  this  evening,"  I  said.  "I 
will  think  about  it,  and  you  will  know  more  defi- 
nitely what  is  the  War  Office  view." 

He  seemed  relieved  at  the  respite. 

"All  right.  I  will  go  back  and  see  the  General 
now.    Expect  me  for  dinner." 

Left  alone  I  rang  up  Barbara,  but  Levitt  told 
me  she  had  gone  to  Whern  in  the  car  "with  Miss 
Monica."  I  hung  up,  wondering  whether  the 
journey  has  been  made  at  the  best  or  at  the  worst 
possible  moment. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  PASSING  OF  MICHAEL 


"She  held  her  head  high  and  smiled  that  bril- 
liant smile.   .    . 

Is  it  all  genuine  admiration  that  I  now  feel,  or 
is  self  so  tremendous  that  I  salute  in  her  gambler's 
throw  my  chance  of  heaven?  There  was  little 
enough  promise  of  heaven  at  the  time.  Weeks  of 
bitter  recrimination,  of  slander  and  foulness — and 
the  last  tragedy.  From  the  catastrophe  I  profited 
and  the  rest  went  under.  But,  indeed,  I  am  not  so 
selfish.  Monica  showed  herself  unflinching  and  a 
woman.  Is  that  no  cause  for  admiration?  For 
the  rest — I  would  wish  it  otherwise  if  I  could. 
We  are  the  involuntary  heirs  of  yesterday. 

At  dinner  no  sign  of  Barbara.  Michael  seemed 
peevishly  interrogatory,  but  his  questioning  was  of 
glance  not  of  word.    He  spoke  little  at  table,  and 

283 


284  Privilege 

even  in  the  library  afterwards  I  was  compelled 
myself  to  raise  the  subject  that  was  foreground 
and  background  of  our  thoughts 

"You  saw  the  General?" 

"Merely  to  resign." 

I  stared. 

"Resign  what?" 

"Everything." 

"But,  Michael — surely  until  we  know  what  is 
to  happen ?" 

He  sat  staring  at  the  empty  grate,  and  an  un- 
lighted  cigar  twitched  nervously  between  his  teeth. 
Suddenly : 

"Why  is  Barbara  away?    Where  is  she?" 

"She  has  taken  Monica  to  Whern." 

There  was  no  escape.  Blunt  candor  was  the 
only  policy. 

"To  Whern?"  An  evil  smile  flickered  in  his 
eyes.  "That  is  charming.  It  only  needed  that 
to  prove  my  complicity.  I  am  blessed  with  loyal 
women,  Richard." 

I  flared  out  at  the  cruel  injustice. 

"  It  is  abominable  to  say  such  things !  Barbara 
has  done  this  out  of  pity.  You  wouldn't  have 
Monica  alone  in  London  .    .    .  ?" 

"Your  warmth  does  you  credit,"  he  sneered. 


The  Passing  of  Michael        285 

"To  anyone  less  well  acquainted  with  the  natural 
bias   ..." 

For  a  moment  I  hung  over  him  trembling  with 
rage.  He  looked  me  coolly  in  the  face  and  the 
contempt  in  his  gaze  shriveled  my  indignation, 
for  it  had  no  roots  in  honor  and  withered,  as  it  had 
sprung  up,  in  an  instant  of  time.  I  was  at  the 
door  when  he  called  me  back. 

"We  can  quarrel  later,  brother,"  he  said  levelly. 
"I  am  going  to  telephone  to  Whern.  Come  and 
sit  down." 

During  the  minutes  of  waiting  for  the  trunk  call 
to  be  connected,  we  sat  in  resentful  silence.  I 
was  afraid  now;  not  afraid  of  Michael,  but  for 
him  and  for  all  of  us.  He  was  savage  with  self- 
pity,  and  I  felt  unable  to  gauge  the  extremities  to 
which  a  desperate  man  of  his  temperament  might 
be  driven  by  anger  and  by  shame. 

A  car  turned  the  corner  of  the  square,  darkened 
for  a  moment  the  dusk  of  the  uncurtained  window, 
and  stopped  just  out  of  sight.  Simultaneously  the 
telephone  rang.  Michael  took  up  the  receiver  and 
was  confirming  his  number  to  the  operator  when 
my  quick  ear  heard  the  rattle  of  a  latchkey  in  the 
lock.  In  a  moment  I  was  out  of  the  room  and 
hastening  across  the  hall  to  meet  Barbara. 


286  Privilege 

"Be  very  careful!"  I  urged  in  a  low  voice. 
"He's  not  himself,  and  provocation  might  be 
dangerous." 

She  looked  at  me  in  somber  silence,  nodded,  and 
turned  to  go  upstairs.  I  reached  the  study  in  time 
to  hear  the  end  of  Michael's  conversation. 

"...  has  left?     When?" 

•  •  • 

"Then  is— Here,  Dick!"  (to  me).  "Why  did 
you  go  out?" 

"Barbara,"  I  said  simply. 

He  turned  once  more  to  the  telephone. 

"Hullo!  Hullo!  Are  you  there?  .  .  .  Damn, 
they've  gone.   .    .    .     Is  she  coming  down  ? " 

"I  imagine  so,"  I  replied,  and  stood  in  uncom- 
fortable suspense  gazing  without  eyes  at  the  rows 
of  bookshelves  that  lined  the  wall.  Michael  had 
not  moved  from  his  chair.  I  had  my  back  to  the 
room,  but  could  feel  the  tenseness  of  his  attitude. 
How  read  the  portents?  Was  he  crouched  to 
spring  or  collecting  endurance  to  bear  further 
blows?  There  had  been  a  note  of  appeal  even  in 
his  fiercest  anger  of  a  minute  back ;  it  was  as  though 
he  shrank  from  brutality,  turned  in  despairing 
rage,  and  shrank  again.  I  knew  that  his  reflective 
delicacy  of  mind  might  well  betray  him  at  the 


The  Passing  of  Michael        287 

crisis  of  his  fury.  At  the  same  time  he  was  of  the 
finest  tempering ;  there  was  no  inch  of  weakness  in 
the  resilient  length  of  him.  He  would  not  give 
way;  equally,  I  felt  sure,  he  would  not — could  not 
dominate,  by  mere  violence  of  emotion. 

And  still  Barbara  tarried.  I  heard  Michael 
move  impatiently.  With  an  effort  I  turned  and 
walked  toward  where  he  sat. 

"She  is  changing,  I  expect,"  I  said  vaguely. 

He  looked  at  me  with  an  odd  wildness. 

"Changing?  Why  again?  Is  she  not  changed 
enough?" 

My  position  was  rather  pitiable.  Rightly  he  did 
not  trust  me,  and  yet  I  was  hoping  to  bring  him 
once  more  to  normal  acceptance  of  a  tragic  fact. 
There  seemed  nothing  to  say.  In  one  secret 
moment  I  cursed  the  fate  that  ever  brought  Bar- 
bara across  our  path.  But  the  next  I  was  in  the 
grip  of  a  greater  shame,  for  a  man  may  deny  his 
parents  and  live,  but  he  that  denies  his  woman  is 
no  man  at  all. 

Without  a  preliminary  sound  the  door  opened 
and  Barbara  came  in.  She  wore  black,  and  her 
hair  was  braided  low  over  her  ears.  Going  straight 
to  Michael  she  knelt  beside  him  and  bowed  her 
head  over  his  hand. 


288  Privilege 

"Forgive  me,  Michael  dear.  It  was  not  done 
without  much  thought.  She  could  not  stay  where 
she  was — alone — with  the  storm  brewing.  I  had 
to  act  at  once.  She  shall  leave  Whern  if  you  wish 
it ;  and  I  am  here  to  be  punished  as  and  when  you 
desire." 

He  stared  at  her  proud  head  bent  low  by  his 
side.  The  lines  about  his  mouth  relaxed  a  little. 
It  was  a  princely  opportunity  for  graciousness,  and 
his  every  tendency  urged  him  to  embrace  it.  If 
transmission  of  will  exists,  I  did  my  humble  share 
in  bringing  him  to  a  decision.  After  a  brief 
struggle,  his  sense  of  gesture  conquered.  He  laid 
his  other  hand  on  her  glittering  hair. 

"Get  up,  please,  child.    Let  us  talk  quietly." 

She  rose  and,  without  a  glance  at  me,  seated 
herself  on  a  plain  upright  chair  a  little  in  front  of 
her  husband.  Michael  paused  an  instant  and 
then,  to  my  intense  relief,  got  up  and  moved  to 
the  mantelpiece.  When  I  saw  him  once  more  with 
hunched  shoulders,  his  hands  in  his  trouser  pock- 
ets, his  feet  on  the  curb,  I  began  to  believe  the 
situation  was  indeed  saved.  He  began  to  speak, 
but  quietly  and  with  his  usual  wistful  diffidence. 

"Whern  is  not  easy.  .  .  .  You  see  that, 
Barbara?    It  is  not  easy.    For  every  reason  some- 


The  Passing  of  Michael        289 

where  else  would  be  better.  .  .  .  But  I  do  not 
know  what  will  happen.  She  may  have  to  leave 
the  country  .  .  .  even  if  nothing  gets  out.  If 
it  does  .  .  .  What  is  her  feeling?  Perhaps  I 
should  go  and  see  her.   .    .    ." 

Barbara  and  I  exchanged  a  quick  look.  There 
was  danger  in  this. 

"Would  it  not  be  best  to  see  first  the  course  of 
events?" 

"Maybe,"  replied  Michael,  "if  that  were  pos- 
sible. But  I  have  burnt  my  boats.  I  have  no 
entree  now." 

"I  have,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  doubtfully. 

"We  cannot  push  ourselves  into  things  just  yet. 
It  would  make  matters  worse.  On  the  other  hand, 
we  can  decide  our  own  policy  and  that  depends 
on  .  .  .  — "he  could  not  bring  himself  to  mention 
Monica  by  name — "  on  .  .  .  how  we  all  feel 
about  it.    I  think  I  must  go  to  Whern." 

Barbara  interposed. 

"May  I  suggest?    Let  me  get  her  to  Jim's  place 

in  Wales.    Then  come  and  see  her  there.    As  you 

say,  Whern  is  difficult.    No  one  knows  she  is  there 

except  Mrs.  Marlowe.    The  house  is  shut  up.    But 

if  you  go  down  ..." 
19 


290  Privilege 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  agree.  But  it  must  not  be  left  long.  When 
can  you  arrange  the  move  to  Wales?" 

"Three  days,"  said  Barbara. 

"All  right.    Expect  me  Monday." 

We  had  won  what  in  seeming  was  a  victory. 
Next  morning  Michael  remained  hidden  in  his 
study.  Occasionally  I  heard  the  telephone  clink 
faintly  in  the  basement.  At  lunch  he  swallowed 
some  fish  and  a  glass  of  wine. 

"I  shall  be  out  all  the  afternoon,"  he  said. 

As  he  crossed  the  square  his  narrow  shoulders 
were  bowed  and  tired.  The  very  strangeness  of 
his  mufti  gave  poignancy  to  his  look  of  age  and 
shame. 

"Now  for  Monica,"  said  Barbara.  "She  must 
leave  Whern  to-morrow  early.  Plas  Rhidden  is 
warned." 

"I  will  go,"  I  said.  "You  are  needed  here  to 
keep  Michael  sane.    He  looked  so  old  just  now." 

Going  to  his  room  to  fetch  a  pipe  left  there  the 
night  before,  I  found  the  hearthrug  strewn  with 
newspaper.  Sheet  after  sheet  was  there,  lying  at 
random,  crumpled  hastily.  Michael  must  have 
ordered  in  every  journal  published.  In  the  same 
instant  that  I  realized  the  cause  came  curiosity  as 


The  Passing  of  Michael        291 

to  the  result.  Feverishly  I  scanned  the  pages. 
Nothing.  And  then,  when  rising  from  my  knees 
to  leave  the  room,  my  eye  caught  in  a  distant 
corner  a  tumbled  whiteness.  With  a  strange  sink- 
ing I  retrieved  the  paper  from  the  spot  to  which, 
evidently,  it  had  been  thrown.  Hardly  breathing, 
I  read  and  read.  Was  this  also  Moffat?  I  was  not 
far  from  tears  when  I  thought  of  Michael,  in  lonely 
humiliation  reading  this  ranting  beastliness,  and 
then  coming  to  lunch  without  a  tremor,  without  a 
word.  His  shoulders,  as  he  crossed  the  square, 
had  been  with  reason  bowed.  I  felt  a  sudden  ache 
of  terror.  Shoulders  bend,  but  hearts  break.  Then 
the  heedless  cruelty  of  the  article  forced  itself  on 
me  again  and  drove  fear  for  Michael  from  my 
mind.  In  its  place  flamed  a  wild  anger  against  an 
epoch  that  made  possible  the  victory  of  such  ill- 
bred  cant  over  the  spirit  of  gentility.  The  inso- 
lence, the  hypocrisy,  the  muddy,  hateful  prejudice 
that  thus  easily  found  public  hearing! 

The  article  was  super-patriotism.  After  a  vile 
garnishing  of  Monica's  indiscretion,  it  proceeded 
to  a  sketch  of  Michael  and  his  official  responsi- 
bilities. 

"His  lordship  is  a  man  of  discrimination,"  it 
concluded.     "He  is  young  and,  to  the  best  of  our 


292  Privilege 

knowledge,  in  good  health.  The  majority  of  his 
generation,  those  to  whom  chance  has  not  given 
so  freely  of  social  prominence,  of  riches,  and  of 
cosmopolitan  connections,  have  elected  to  meet  the 
enemy  face  to  face.  For  what  are  doubtless  ex- 
cellent reasons,  Lord  Whern  prefers  the  security 
of  Whitehall  and  the  more  subtle  personal  contact 
with  the  Central  Powers  that  relationship  and 
feminine  intuition  alone  can  achieve." 

Scrupulously  I  burnt  that  leprous  thing  until 
nothing  but  charred  ash  remained.  There  was  an 
uncanny  sense  of  the  victim's  character  behind 
such  shameless  provocation,  for  Michael  was  of 
the  kind  that  hide  their  wounds  and  bleed  to 
death  in  secret,  rather  than  admit  a  scratch. 

I  was  to  drive  myself  to  Whern  Royal,  sleep 
at  the  inn,  and,  the  next  morning,  take  Monica 
from  the  Abbey  into  Wales.  Something  must  be 
said  to  Barbara  of  the  libel  I  had  just  destroyed. 
Then  I  would  start. 

She  was  in  her  boudoir  writing  letters. 

"I  think  I  shall  go,"  I  said.  "Something  bad 
has  happened.  Michael  has  been  dragging  the 
gutter  Press  for  garbage  and  found  a  filthy  screed 
that  calls  him  a  coward  and  a  traitor.  It  was  in 
his  room  and  I  burnt  it.    You  will  need  all  your 


The  Passing  of  Michael        293 

pluck  to-night,  when  he  returns.  Keep  him  with 
you — by  any  means." 

She  stared  at  me  in  somber  silence.    Then: 

"He  thought  me  beautiful  once,"  she  said. 

I  groped  towards  her  line  of  reasoning.  Gradu- 
ally my  mind  closed  round  the  ultimate  implica- 
tion. A  jealousy,  as  presumptuous  as  it  was 
unwelcome,  throbbed  through  the  grave  pity  of 
the  moment.    I  choked  it  to  false  quiescence. 

"By  any  means,"  I  repeated  dully.  "Only 
keep  him — and  hold  him." 

She  smiled  through  misty  eyes. 

"Good-bye,  Dick,"  she  said  softly.  "I  have 
telephoned  Monica  that  you  are  coming." 

And  her  head  bent  once  more  over  her  bureau. 


II 


The  wind  had  changed  and  the  dusk  was  loud 
with  a  rising  gale,  as  I  ran  the  car  into  the  inn 
yard  of  Whern  Royal.  Clouds  raced  up  from  the 
west;  the  huge  elms  in  the  churchyard  sang  and 
creaked  against  a  lowering  sky.  I  went  early  to 
bed  and  lay  for  a  while,  savoring  the  homely  re- 
moteness of  the  low  room  under  the  eaves,  with  its 
sloping  floor  and  sweet  odor  of  country  cleanliness. 


294  Privilege 

Far  away  in  London  Michael  was  facing  the  ruins 
of  his  life.  And  Barbara?  I  dropped  into  sleep, 
and  dreams  came  to  the  pursuance  of  my  thoughts. 
I  was  in  her  room  at  Whern, — but  this  time  invisibly 
— a  spectator  not  a  protagonist.  Michael  was 
standing,  as  I  had  stood,  against  the  towering 
chimney  breast,  his  head  drooped,  and  his  sad  eyes 
fixed  on  a  smoldering  fire.  So  vivid  was  the 
scene  that  I  heard  once  again  the  very  ticking  of 
the  clock  that  had,  on  that  evening  of  our  madness, 
marked  the  passing  of  the  minutes.  Barbara  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  Then  silently  the  curtains 
parted,  that  divided  her  bed-chamber  from  the 
boudoir-sitting-room  in  which  Michael  waited 
alone.  She  crossed  the  floor  silently.  Her  feet 
were  bare ;  her  hair,  like  a  rich  mantilla,  flowed  over 
her  shoulders.  He  raised  his  head  and  stared. 
With  a  slow,  wide  gesture  she  spread  out  her  arms ; 
the  loose  wrapper  fell  open,  and  she  stood  before 
him — and  me 

"What  is  it?    Who's  there?" 

The  knocking  brought  me  to  fuddled  wakeful- 
ness.   Sleep  and  its  visions  clung  round  my  eyes. 
My  mind  reeled  towards  sanity.     There  was  the 
click  of  a  lifted  latch,  a  shaft  of  light  struck  across' 
the  ceiling,  widened  to  a  tremulous  fan.    The  door 


The  Passing  of  Michael        295 

opened  wide,  and  there  before  me,  carrying  an 
unsteady  candle,  was  Monica. 

Fully  awake,  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  stared  at  her. 
She  closed  the  door,  set  down  the  candle,  and  came 
quickly  to  the  bedside. 

"Come  at  once!  Quickly!  I  am  frightened. 
It's  not  a  nice  feeling.    Get  up  and  dress!" 

The  note  of  irony  did  more  even  than  her  pallor 
and  the  fantastic  suddenness  of  her  appearance  to 
steady  my  faculties. 

"Wait  downstairs.  I'll  be  ready  in  two 
minutes." 

As  I  forced  on  my  clothes,  I  became  aware  for 
the  first  time  that  rain  was  falling.  The  wind 
wailed  in  the  chimney  and  the  storm  lashed  the 
window-panes  and  pattered  briskly  through  an 
open  lattice  on  to  the  oilcloth.  Curiosity  struggled 
with  fear.  What  had  happened?  And  the  next 
moment — was  it  possible  ? 

Together  we  passed  out  into  the  darkness. 
Monica  carried  an  electric  torch.  Through  the 
driving  rain  we  hurried  towards  the  gate  of  the 
park.  On  either  hand  was  turbulent  blackness; 
before  us  shone  the  circle  of  white  light,  and 
through  it  the  raindrops  glistened  and  danced 
as  they  splashed  on  the  stones  and  gravel  of  the 


296  Privilege 

roadway.  Without  waiting  for  questions  Monica 
began  to  speak,  and  her  words,  muffled  by  the 
noise  of  the  wind,  came  to  me  as  fragments  of 
some  legendary  tale. 

" .  .  .  Barbara  telephoned  that  you  were  com- 
ing ...  to  shake  off  the  oppression  of  the  house, 
.  .  .  struck  across  the  park,  up  through  the  woods, 
and  along  Wherntop.  It  was  fine  then,  and  the 
country  was — oh,  was  English.  I  never  realized 
before  how  native  I  am — really.  Having  time 
to  think — I  suppose  that's  what  does  it  .  .  . 
round  by  Gallows  Bottom,  and  so  in  by  the 
gate  above  Nicholas.  It  was  seven  when  I  reached 
the  house.     In  the  hall  was  Michael " 

It  was  not  really  unexpected,  but  some  auto- 
matic sense  of  what  is  startling  prompted  an 
exclamation. 

"Yes,"  Monica  went  on.  "He  sat  there  on  one 
of  those  ghastly  throne  things  that  no  one  ever 
sat  on  before  and  looked  so  old,  so  old.  .  .  .  He 
just  fixed  his  eyes  on  me  and  said  nothing.  Like 
an  excited  fool,  I  challenged  him — jauntily,  I 
daresay;  I  am  a  bad  penitent.  Or  was.  I  feel  all 
out  for  sackcloth  now.  He  answered  me  with  a 
horrid  quietness.  'I  have  come  home,  sister.' 
That  was  all.    For  a  moment  I  had  no  ideas.   What 


The  Passing  of  Michael        297 

a  rotten  feeling  it  is — that  sense  of  paralysis  of 
mind.  I  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  do.  But 
habit  got  me  going  again,  and  I  told  him  I  was 
leaving  next  day  and  hoped  he  would  forgive  the 
brief  trespass.  More  jauntiness.  He  echoed  my 
words  indifferently:  'Going?  To-morrow?  It 
does  not  matter.  Nothing  matters  to  Whern.'  I 
felt  suddenly  nervous.  'Why  have  you  come?'  I 
asked.  But  he  only  repeated :  '  I  have  come  home, 
sister.  Surely  there  is  nothing  so  very  odd  in 
coming  home  ? '  Then  he  got  up  and  walked  past 
me  to  the  open  door.  'I  shall  stroll  out  and  see 
the  woods  again.  They  are  very  lovely  in  fine 
weather.  And  trees  know  nothing,  can  imagine 
nothing.'  I  watched  him  cross  the  terrace  and  dis- 
appear behind  the  copse  below  the  sunk  fence.  Then 
I  went  in  and  sat  down  to  my  boiled  egg.  Marlowe 
said  nothing  of  Michael.  Evidently  she  had  not 
seen  him.     After  supper  I  went  to  my  room " 

"Which  are  you  using?"  I  asked. 

"The  one  Mary  had  long  ago — right  at  the  top 
of  the  central  block." 

"And  Mrs.  Marlowe?" 

"Oh,  she  sleeps  at  her  cottage." 

"Monica!  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  all 
alone  in  the  Abbey?" 


298  Privilege 

"I  am.  It's  pretty  ghastly,  but  then  I'm  done 
for,  and  isolation  seems  appropriate.  I  have  always 
had  a  sense  of  staging." 

We  were  now  in  the  woods  and  the  rain  fell 
less  heavily.  The  trunks  gleamed  against  the 
black  undergrowth,  as  the  fringe  of  the  torch's 
light  touched  them  and  passed  them  by.  I 
shivered,  less  from  cold  than  at  the  thought  of  the 
gaunt  and  empty  house  to  which  we  were  bound. 
Monica  proceeded: 

By  that  time  the  clouds  were  driving  up,  and' 
when  I  tried  sitting  at  the  window,  I  found  it 
cold.  I  wondered  whether  Michael  had  come  in — 
or  would  come  in.  I  wondered  what  I  ought  to  do. 
Frankly  I  was  scared  of  him,  and — well,  the  cul- 
prit cannot  suddenly  come  the  maternal  over  the 
judge.  I  tried  to  imagine  I  heard  your  car;  it 
was  a  comfort  to  think  of  you  at  the  inn.  But  the 
wind  was  getting  louder.  At  nine-thirty  I  went  to 
bed.  For  the  first  time  the  noises  of  the  house 
worried  me.  I  thought  of  those  miles  of  corridor, 
of  the  stairs  and  stairs,  of  the  lumps  of  furniture 
under  their  coverings.  Of  course  all  the  time  I 
was  listening — listening  for  Michael.  The  rain  be- 
gan. 'He  will  get  wet,'  I  thought.  Only  that. 
Just  that  he  would  get  wet.    It  never  occurred  to 


The  Passing  of  Michael        299 

me  that  he  might  be  with  you  at  Royal  or  in  some 
other  inn  or  anywhere  but  out  in  the  drenching 
woods.  ...  And  then,  about  eleven,  I  heard 
something.  A  door  closing.  I  was  sure  of  it. 
Somewhere  far  down  in  the  house  a  door  had 
closed.  I  was  by  now  properly  nervy.  Nothing 
could  have  got  me  out  of  that  room.  I  crouched 
down  in  bed  and  tried  to  shut  my  ears  with  the 
clothes.  But  in  a  little  while  I  pulled  myself 
together  and  began  to  listen  again.  This  time  the 
noises  of  wind  and  rattling  doors  and  of  the  rain 
on  the  sill  were  delicious  familiarities.     No  alien 

sound  at  all.    I  settled  for  sleep.    And  then " 

She  stopped.  In  the  moment  of  silence  we 
cleared  the  edge  of  the  trees  and  were  on  the  grass 
flat  of  the  arena.  The  sky  was  thinning  out  and 
faint  light  patches  among  the  clouds  told  of  a 
moon  shining  above  the  level  of  wind  and  storm. 

" — and  then  it  happened.  I  just  bolted,  Dick. 
Into  my  clothes  and  down  those  horrible  stairs 
and  over  the  park  and  through  the  woods,  hardly 
seeing  or  feeling  till  I  got  to  Royal  and  the  inn 
and  you.     All  to  pieces  I  was." 

"But  what—  ?"  I  began. 

She  laughed  nervously. 

"That's  the  idiocy.    I'm  not  even  sure.    But  I 


3o°  Privilege 

believe  I  heard — at  the  time  I  could  have  sworn 
it — I  believe  I  heard — a  shot.   .    .    ." 

We  were  passing  the  ruin.  Its  irregular  bulk 
loomed  over  us.  I  touched  the  rough  masonry 
with  my  hand  and  imagined  that  my  nerves 
rallied  a  little  by  virtue  of  the  rugged  endurance 
of  this  ancient  keep.  Monica  had  heard  a  shot. 
Had  she  in  truth?  Of  course  she  had.  I  had 
known  it  all  along ;  had  known  it  from  the  moment 
of  her  rousing  me  from  sleep.  And  then  to  the 
extreme  of  scepticism.  Imagination,  pure  and 
simple.  She  was  avowedly  wrought  up ;  any  sud- 
den noise  would  suggest  tragedy.  We  skirted  the 
ponds,  mounted  the  opposing  slope,  crossed  the 
sunk  fence,  the  lawn,  the  lower  terrace.  Then  I 
stopped. 

"Monica,"  I  said,  "we  must  do  this  alone.  Can 
you  stick  it?" 

She  tossed  her  head. 

"I'm  all  right  now,  Richard,  thank  you,  and  I 
am  up  against  plenty  of  bigger  things  than — than 
an  empty  house." 

"Sorry,"  I  replied. 

We  crossed  the  flags  and  turned  the  corner  of 
the  south  front.  Another  minute  and  we  were 
under  the  vaulting  of  the  porch. 


The  Passing  of  Michael        301 

Out  of  consideration  for  my  own  unsteady- 
nerves,  as  much  as  from  ardor  of  action,  I  passed 
straight  to  the  front  door,  and  was  groping  for  the 
light  switch,  when  Monica  caught  me  by  the  arm. 

"No  use,"  she  said.    "The  light's  off." 

' '  Off  ? "  I  felt  stupidly  indignant  at  what  seemed 
deliberate  incompetence. 

"After  all,  if  there's  no  one  to  work  the  engine, 
there  can't  be  any  light,  can  there?" 

Her  mocking  tone  revived  my  common  sense. 
Of  course ;  the  house  had  been  shut  up  for  months. 
The  eeriness  of  the  place  began  to  creep  over  me. 
I  had  so  counted  on  light. 

"Give  me  the  torch,"  I  said. 

We  paused  in  the  great  hall.  The  columns  rose 
into  immeasurable  gloom.  The  beam  of  light  was 
a  futile  whisker  twitched  about  an  inky  void. 
When  we  started  to  walk  towards  the  broad  flight 
of  steps  that  rose  from  the  hall  to  the  octagon 
beneath  the  great  tower,  our  footsteps  echoed 
harshly  against  the  naked  walls.  The  curtains 
were  down  from  the  octagon ;  the  sofas  and  chairs 
piled  under  dust-sheets.  The  alcove  in  which 
Barbara  and  I  had  sat  that  momentous  evening 
yawned  emptily  to  the  right. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  whispered  Monica. 


302  Privilege 

"To  the  north  tower,"  I  answered. 

Up  the  main  staircase,  round  the  gallery  landing 
with  its  little  balconies  overhanging  the  gulf  be- 
low, along  the  corridor  from  which  opened  Bar- 
bara's rooms,  we  passed  in  tense  procession.  At 
the  end  was  a  swing  door.  It  gave  on  to  the  spiral 
staircase  of  the  northern  tower  and,  beyond,  on  to 
a  small  landing  with  three  doors.  This  was 
Michael's  domain.  It  consisted  of  his  bedroom, 
his  bathroom,  and  a  turret  room,  in  which  he  kept 
boots  and  fishing  tackle,  some  odd  books  and 
papers,  his  private  safe,  and  such  miscellaneous 
objects  as  could  find  no  proper  place  even  in  an 
existence  so  carefully  ordered  as  was  his.  Outside 
this  door  I  stood  and  listened.  The  wind  sighed 
up  and  down  the  spiral  stair;  Monica  moved 
slightly,  and  the  rustle  of  her  wet  mackintosh  set 
faint  echoes  whispering  above  our  heads.  I  took 
a  final  hold  on  my  quivering  nerves  and  turned 
the  handle  of  the  door.  It  yielded.  The  torch 
threw  a  greedy  light  about  the  tiny  room.  Michael 
was  not  there. 

ill 

Dawn  found  us  huddled  in  weary  wakefulness 
on  the  window-seat  of  Monica's  bedroom.     The 


The  Passing  of  Michael        303 

storm  had  passed,  and  a  desultory  wind  ruffled  the 
ivy  that  clustered  about  the  mullions  and  over 
the  outer  sill.  Daylight  was  bringing  a  pale  vigor 
to  a  sky  of  flaccid  and  struggling  clouds. 

"Barbara  should  arrive  soon,"  I  said. 

Monica  yawned. 

"Suppose  so.  Do  I  look  very  ghastly?  A  giddy 
night  on  the  body- snatching  lay  takes  the  curl  out 
of  the  ewige  Weibliche.    As  for  you!  ..." 

I  was  too  tired  to  resent  her  flippancy ;  too  tired 
even  not  to  resent  it.  The  snapping  of  our  mutual 
suspense  over  the  bareness  of  that  empty  turret 
room  had  done  more  than  shatter  the  nervous 
self-possession  that  supported  temporary  reserve. 
It  had  set  free  the  illimitable  fatigue  and  irritation 
of  months  of  anxiety.  With  Monica  the  reaction 
had  been  to  hysterical  levity.  With  me  to  resent- 
ment. Fiercely,  I  had  disbelieved  her  whole  ac- 
count of  the  day's  happening;  for  a  few  minutes 
I  had  disbelieved  even  that  Michael  had  been 
seen  at  Whern.  In  the  long  corridor  opposite 
Barbara's  door  I  had  accused  her  of  deliberate 
fabrication. 

"Is  the  whole  thing  your  conception  of  a  joke?" 
I  had  asked  bitterly. 

For  reply  she  had  pirouetted  on  her  toes  and 


304  Privilege 

jazzed  a  few  provocative  steps.  In  the  instant  of 
silence  between  her  challenge  and  an  angry  ac- 
ceptance of  it,  the  telephone  had  sounded.  We 
were  caught  up  in  that  breathless  moment  by  the 
shrill  whirr  of  its  distant  call. 

"Michael!"  cried  Monica  and  flew  to  the  stairs. 

I  had  followed  her,  incredulous  in  my  fury  of 
the  very  sound  I  had  so  clearly  heard.  When  I 
reached  the  library  (as  the  room  in  which  Monica 
had  been  taking  her  simple  meals,  it  was  to  some 
degree  habitable)  she  was  already  at  the  receiver, 
and  I  had  known  at  once  that  it  was  not  Michael 
at  the  other  end  and  who  it  was. 

"...  Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  No,  I 
went  to  fetch  him.  .  .  .  Not  since  about 
seven.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Nothing.  Just 
sitting  in  the  hall.  ...  I  don't  know.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  can't  explain  on  this  machine.  Can  you 
come?  .  .  .  All  right.  Do  you  want  to  speak 
to  Dick?     .    .     .     Good-bye." 

"She'll  be  here  in  about  three  hours,"  Monica 
had  said.    "What,  in  the  meantime?" 

A  listlessness  had  come  over  me.  But  terror 
had  gone  from  the  dark,  deserted  house,  and  it 
needed  only  a  conquest  of  apathy  to  insist  on  a 


The  Passing  of  Michael        305 

continuance  of  the  search.  Mechanically  and 
methodically  we  had  investigated  every  corner  of 
the  building.  About  four  o'clock  exhaustion  came 
into  its  kingdom,  and  under  its  leaden  but  sleep- 
less tyranny  we  sat  out  the  time  until  the  coming 
of  daylight  and  Barbara. 

Between  Monica's  aggressive  frivolity  and  the 
screech  of  Barbara's  wheels  on  the  drive  I  recall 
neither  movement  nor  idea  that  broke  the  torpor 
of  our  waiting.  The  sky  cleared,  the  sun  rose,  and 
a  cruel  beauty  spread  slowly  over  the  indifferent 
woods.  At  the  first  distant  sound  of  the  engine 
I  struggled  stiffly  to  my  feet. 

"Here  she  comes!" 

She  must  have  made  a  record  course  from  the 
park  gate.  I  could  hear  the  car  leave  the  high- 
road, there  was  a  brief  period  of  gluttonous 
throbbing,  and  it  seemed  the  next  moment  that 
the  sound  shot  clear  of  the  trees  and  was  scoring 
an  angry  mark  across  the  stillness  of  the  arena. 

We  met  her  in  the  great  hall.  She  wore  the 
leather  coat  and  tight  fur  cap  which  were  among 
my  earliest  memories. 

"I  want  some  coffee,"  she  said.  "While  it  is 
heating,  tell  me  what  has  happened." 


20 


3°6  Privilege 

She  heard  us  out  in  silence.    Then: 

"There  is  little  story  at  my  end.  He  went  out 
after  lunch — as  you  know,  Dick — and  never  came 
back.  I  did  not  begin  to  worry  until  dinner-time, 
but  half -past  eight  and  no  sign  of  him.  ...  It 
was  awkward.  Inquiries  at  the  War  Office  .  .  . 
after  what  has  happened  ...  I  couldn't  tele- 
phone, could  I?  I  asked  several  likely  friends, 
but  none  had  seen  him.  Then  suddenly  I  thought 
of  Whern.  I  rang  you  about  ten ;  again  at  eleven- 
thirty  ;  again  about  one.  No  answer.  It  was  a  last 
despairing  try  that  fetched  you  down." 

"Even  if  I  had  heard,"  said  Monica,  "I  should 
not  have  dared  .    .    . " 

Barbara  waved  an  impatient  hand. 

"Of  course  not.  Anyway,  it  is  unimportant. 
We  must  find  him.  Dick  shall  fetch  his  car  and 
we'll  divide  the  country." 

"The  woods  first,"  came  suddenly  from  Monica. 
<CI  was  frightened  of  the  woods  last  night." 

In  the  presence  of  her  sister-in-law  Monica  had 
become  wistful  and  pleading.  Barbara  was  in 
command,  and  for  my  part  there  seemed  no  love- 
lier cure  for  a  tired  spirit  than  to  watch  her  and 
to  obey. 

"  Perhaps  the  woods  now  .    .    .    ?"  I  suggested. 


The  Passing  of  Michael        3°7 

Monica  passed  her  hand  across  her  eyes. 

"Come  on,"  she  said,  and  stood  up.  The  next 
moment  she  swerved  and  stumbled  heavily.  We 
caught  her  as  she  fell  and  placed  her  in  a  deep 
chair.  For  a  moment  she  lay  there  with  closed 
lids,  then  with  a  convulsive  movement  flung  her 
head  forward  on  to  her  knees  and  burst  into  a 
terrible  sobbing.  Barbara  knelt  by  her  side  and 
took  her  in  compassionate  arms. 

"Poor  child,"  she  murmured,  "poor  reckless 
child." 

I  turned  away  and  stood  at  the  window  watching 
the  bland  sunshine  on  the  meaningless  beauty  of 
Whern.  As  I  watched,  a  man  broke  from  the 
trees  on  the  far  rim  of  the  arena  and  began  running 
towards  the  house.  Some  instinct  prompted  me 
to  go  and  meet  him.  Slipping  on  to  the  terrace 
I  hurried  to  the  sunk  fence.  Beneath  it  and  out 
of  sight  of  the  library  windows,  I  awaited  the 
coming  of  the  messenger.  That  he  was  a  messenger 
and  pertinent  to  the  subject  of  the  moment  I  had 
no  doubt ;  when,  as  he  approached  and  I  recognized 
one  of  the  few  keepers  passed  over  by  the  war,  I 
could  almost  have  taken  the  tidings  out  of  his 
mouth.   .    .    . 

So  Otranto  had  staged  another  tragedy.    That 


308  Privilege 

those  trumpery  battlements  should  have  crowned 
the  death  scenes  of  two  successive  lords  of  Whern 
was  revolting  in  its  absurdity.  Harold  had  fallen 
at  the  foot  of  its  ludicrous  twenty  feet  of  crag; 
Michael  in  its  gimcrack  guardroom  had  scattered 
his  brains  and,  with  them,  the  garnered  dignity, 
the  fine,  wry  maturity  of  an  ancient  family. 

"They  have  found  him,"  I  said. 

The  two  women  were  standing  when  I  came 
once  more  to  the  library  window,  Monica  red-eyed 
and  drooping,  Barbara  clothed  in  the  sullen  majes- 
ty that  seemed  to  fall  about  her  at  moments  of 
intensity. 

"Found  him?"  she  echoed  dully.  Then  with  a 
short  cry  of  anguish  she  ran  towards  me. 

"He  is  dead,  Richard?  Where  is  he?  Take  me 
to  him " 

"They  are  bringing  him  here." 

Monica  burst  into  tears  again,  and  the  sound  of 
her  weeping  restored  the  self-control  that  for  a 
moment  her  sister-in-law  appeared  to  have  lost. 

"Dick,"  she  said  quietly,  "Monica  is  going  at 
once.  To  Wales.  And  then  to  Ireland.  She  must 
go.  It  is  a  last  chance.  For  a  little  while  minds 
will  be  full  of — this  other  thing.  She  must  get 
to  Ireland." 


The  Passing  of  Michael        309 

"Go  at  once?"  I  questioned.     "By  car?" 
"Of  course.     Driving  herself.     Will  you  fetch 
the   two-seater  from  Royal?     Go  now.     I   will 
attend  to  the  .    . 

Her  voice  trailed  off  at  the  edge  of  an  ugly  word. 
Monica,  once  more  composed,  gestured  me  to  go. 
As  I  left  the  house  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  was 
master  now,  master  of  Whern  Abbey,  and  sole 
heir  to  its  strange,  calamitous  memories. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  PASSING  OF  WHERN 


It  is  not  that  I  failed,  during  the  weeks  of  tor- 
ture and  publicity  that  followed  Michael's  suicide, 
to  realize  that  there  was  no  longer  disloyalty  in 
my  love  for  Barbara.  Indeed,  the  wonder  of  that 
tragic  hazard  glowed  beyond  the  horizon  of  my 
every  waking  thought.  But  they  were  grim  days, 
when  lawyers  and  newspapers  and  all  the  tedium 
of  probate  and  inheritance  cluttered  the  foreground 
of  existence,  when  gravity  was  needed  and  calcu- 
lating common  sense,  when  the  world,  hungry  for 
sensation,  whimpered  on  the  very  brink  of  the 
dead  man's  grave. 

I  hope  that  we  played  our  part  with  seemliness. 
Barbara  in  her  weeds  ruled  for  a  brief  space  the 
heady  kingdom  of  popular  sympathy.  Deliber- 
ately I  avoided  her  company,  understanding  well 
that  a  collateral  successor  with  a  withered  foot 

310 


The  Passing  of  Whern         311 

was  of  interest  only  in  his  relation  to  the  beautiful 
widow,  a  perspective  in  which,  under  the  keen  eye 
of  a  nation  of  scandalmongers,  I  had  no  wish  to 
place  either  myself  or  her.  Anthony,  back  from 
France,  attended  the  funeral,  hung  about  town 
for  a  few  days,  and  returned  to  the  front.  He  asked 
no  questions,  feeling,  no  doubt — as  did  so  many  of 
the  young  men  caught  in  the  turbulent  coils  of 
war — that  future  developments  were  at  best  trivial 
things  beside  a  scabrous  present,  at  worst  the 
concern  of  others  than  himself.  Mary  did  some- 
thing to  atone  for  her  earlier  discourtesies.  With 
an  assiduity,  as  pathetic  as  it  was  clumsy,  she 
put  herself  at  Barbara's  service.  Michael's  death 
was  to  her  symbolic  of  social  catastrophe.  She 
remembered  him  as  more  than  a  brother;  as,  rather, 
a  fine  antagonist;  and,  for  all  her  bitterness 
towards  his  creed,  there  was  enough  of  inherited 
sympathy  in  her  blood  to  bring  her  at  once  and 
abjectly  to  do  his  memory  honor.  If  ever  there 
comes  upon  England  the  terror  of  which  she  and 
her  companions  used  so  glibly  to  speak,  I  am  more 
sure  that  Mary  will  be  sacrificed  than  of  the  God 
at  whose  altar  she  will  die. 

At  last  there  came  a  day  when  it  appeared  that 
the  worst  was  over,  when  there  seemed  once  more 


312  Privilege 

a  prospect  that  our  lives  might  become  our  own 
again,  when  between  our  misfortunes  and  the 
pitiless  curiosity  of  a  million  strangers  a  film  of 
forgetfulness  began  to  form.  On  the  evening  of 
that  day  I  found  myself  alone  with  Barbara.  She 
had  taken  a  tiny  house  on  Campden  Hill  and  there 
I  sought  her  out,  because  there  were  many  things 
to  be  said  and  some  that  could  wait  no  longer.  As 
I  walked  through  the  gardens  I  felt  again  the  old 
excitement.  For  the  first  time  since  the  tragedy 
I  was  an  individual  and  not  a  personage  in  a 
case;  for  the  first  time  I  could  think  of  her  as  a 
woman  and  not  as  my  brother's  widow.  I  daresay 
that  my  enthusiasm  bred  over-confidence,  and 
that  I  brought  into  her  fragile  and  miniature 
drawing-room  an  assertiveness  that  checked  what- 
ever tendency  there  may  have  been  on  her  part 
to  a  revival  of  the  delirium  that  once  held  us  both 
in  such  sweet  fever.  Certainly  there  was  unmis- 
takable warning  in  the  level  gentleness  of  her 
greeting. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Dick.  There  is  a  heap 
to  say.  It  is  hard  to  believe  we  have  met  almost 
daily  during  this  time.  Such  crowds  .  .  .  And 
everyone  else's  business  . 

I  settled  myself  on  the  sofa. 


ir 


The  Passing  of  Whern         313 

"There  is  certainly  something  very  important 
that  /  want  to  say,"  I  began,  but  was  checked 
by  the  comical  dismay  that  threw  her  face  mock- 
ingly askew. 

"Dick!"  she  gasped,  "you  are  not  really " 

I  laughed,  as  much  with  pleasure  at  my  own 
rapid  sense  of  her  meaning  as  with  appreciation 
of  its  humor. 

"No.  Not  just  now.  Something  easier,  but 
rather  large.     It's  about  Whern." 

"Whern?    The  house,  you  mean?" 

"The  house  and — all  of  it.  Do  you  want 
it?" 

"Dick,  you're  not  going  to  sell  it?" 

"Not  if  you  want  it." 

She  stared  at  me  broodingly.  Her  great,  sad 
eyes  were  never  more  beautiful.  Slowly  she 
drooped  her  lids  and  I  saw  a  rising  color  spread 
over  her  cheeks. 

"You  said  you  were  going  to  talk  of  something 
else,"  she  whispered. 

' '  Barbara  darling ! "  I  leant  forward  to  take  her 
hand.  "Truly,  truly  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  know 
this  Whern  business  is  connected — my  whole  life 
is  connected — with — the  other  thing.  But  there 
is  a  practical  side.    After  all  we  must  live.    Not 


3H  Privilege 

only  us,  but  Anthony  and  Mary — and  Monica. 
If  you  want  Whern,  it  is  yours,  and,  when  you  are 
sweet  enough  to  ask  me,  I  will  come  as  a  visitor. 
But  if  not — well,  I  prefer  the  cash." 

"Who  will  buy?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Answer  my  question.     Do  you  want  it?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  I  saw  that  they  were 
full  of  tears.    Slowly  she  shook  her  head. 

"I  couldn't,  Dick.  How  I  long  to  want  it! 
But  I  couldn't  live  there.  Not  now.  Not  with 
all  of  you  coming  and  going,  and  yet  nothing  as  it 
used  to  be — except  the  ghosts.  I  have  no  right 
there.  I  came  and — failed.  Oh,  Dick,  how  piti- 
fully I  have  failed!" 

"Barbara!     Please!" 

Passively  she  let  her  proud  head  rest  in  the 
hollow  of  my  shoulder.  In  a  few  moments  she 
was  calm  again.  Wiping  her  eyes,  she  squeezed 
my  hand  and  sat  upright  again. 

"Thank  you,  Dick.  I'm  sorry.  This  sale  of 
Whern.  Is  it  essential?  Surely  you  could  let 
it?" 

"I  daresay.  And  the  sale  is  not,  in  the  sense 
you  mean,  essential.  The  investment  after  the 
Rodbury  sale  is  doing  nicely.  But  the  income  is 
about  half  what   it   was.     To  keep  up   Whern, 


The  Passing  of  Whern         3J5 

even  as  non-resident  landlord  (for  I  couldn't  get 
a  rent  to  matter  these  days),  would  mean  selling 
most  of  the  outlying  property.  Lopping  it  off. 
Whern  would  be  a  monstrosity  with  no  hinter- 
land. So  both  common  sense  and  my  instinct 
is  to  cut  loose.  We  are  not  a  cheap  family,  you 
know.  And  Monica  has  just  written  me  that  she 
needs  money,  even  in  Ireland.  Obviously  she 
does.  Therefore  I  must  raise  some.  How  better 
than  by  selling  something  no  one  of  us  can  bear 
or  afford  to  keep?  The  entail  has  expired.  Also 
my  sense  of  dramatic  melancholy  is  a  strong 
one.  Whern  as  an  expression  of  Braden  is  over. 
Braden  itself  is  over " 

She  moved  impatiently. 

' '  Don't !  It  isn't  true !  It  shan't  be  true.  Good 
heavens,  Dick,  what  a  wretched  thing  is  a  woman 
that  cannot  even  give  a  child!" 

It  was  a  dangerous  moment,  but  I  fought  down 
the  insurgent  longing. 

"Sweetheart,"  I  said  gently,"  let  me  be  sane — 
at  present.  I  mean  that  Braden  as  a  gesture  of 
nobility  is,  for  its  own  sake,  better  a  fragment  of 
the  past.  We  cannot  go  on  mouthing  a  dead 
creed.  The  family  will  persist,  and,  perhaps,  be 
finer  stuff  than  ever,  but  splendid  shells  are  for 


1 6  Privilege 


other  snails  than  formerly.  Surely  I  am  right? 
Better  be  forgotten  than  absurd." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Special  pleading,  I  think.  But  I  understand 
what  you  do  not  say.  All  the  same  it  seems  a 
terrible  thing  to  do.    And  who  will  buy?" 

"That  I  cannot  tell  you,"  I  said.  "But  he  may 
exist.  We  have  our  profiteers,  and  Whern  pre- 
sents incredible  opportunities  of  embellishment." 

' '  Where  will  you  live  ? ' ' 

"The  problem  is  not  for  to-day.  In  any  case 
my  home  worries  me  less  than  my  name.  I  can 
buy  a  flat,  but  I  cannot  sell  a  title." 

"Sell  it?    Dick,  you  are  horrible." 

' '  It  does  not  feel  mine.  I  used  to  thank  heaven 
I  was  safe  from  it.  Now  it  has  dropped  upon  me 
and  I  hate  it.  I  shall  try  disuse.  It  may  rust 
away.  Under  any  reasonable  law  it  would  remain 
with  you,  and  then " 

She  put  her  hand  over  my  mouth. 

"You  will  either  contradict  yourself  or  break 
your  promise  in  a  moment!  Better  hush  while 
there  is  time.  Go  and  find  a  possible  customer; 
then  we  will  make  a  last  decision.  Though  why," 
she  added  quickly,  "I  say  'we,'  I  don't  know. 
It's  not  my  house  or  my  business!" 


The  Passing  of  Whern         317 


11 


When  first  I  had  conceived  the  idea  of  selling 
Whern,  I  had  remembered,  with  an  odd  irrele- 
vance, the  Midland  magnate  who  had  once  lent 
Michael  his  flat  in  Queen  Anne's  Gate.  It  was 
the  good  fortune  of  this  person  to  manufacture 
some  commodity  (the  nature  of  which  I  forget) 
valuable  to  his  countrymen  in  their  struggle  for 
existence.  Whatever  the  commodity  was,  he  made 
a  great  deal  of  it,  and  then  a  great  deal  more. 
Money  became  almost  an  embarrassment  to  him, 
until,  in  the  spring  of  191 7,  it  was  suggested  that 
the  Government  could  make  good  use  of  some 
portion  of  the  surplus  and  give  a  very  decorative 
receipt.  The  proposal  was  a  grateful  one  and  the 
transaction  speedily  completed,  so  that  the  man 
to  whom  I  now  determined  to  offer  Whern  Abbey 
was  no  less  a  personage  than  William  George 
Creevy,  first  Baron  Cleckheaton. 

My  solicitor  was  amused.  He  almost  hinted 
that  I  must  have  my  little  joke.  I  assured  him 
that  I  was  neither  passing  a  quip  nor  seeking 
advice;  I  was  giving  an  instruction.  Whern  was 
for  sale,  and  its  charms  were  to  be  displayed  before 
the  preposterous  Creevy. 


3i  8  Privilege 

"But,  Lord  Whern ! "  the  poor  man  expostulated, 
"it  has  been  in  your  family  for  centuries!  Allow 
an  older  man  the  liberty  of  protesting  against  so 
rash  a  decision.  To  let  the  house  would  be  bad 
enough.     To  sell  it  .    .    .    !" 

"Possibly  I  may  change  my  mind,  if  there  are 
no  takers,"  I  replied.  "In  the  meantime,  thank 
you  for  hating  the  job,  but  it  must  be  done.  Please 
find  some  personal  means  of  approach  to  this 
millionaire  and  see  that  the  possibility  is  suggested 
to  him.    I'll  do  the  rest." 

Late  in  September  I  could  call  on  Barbara  for 
the  final  conversation.  Creevy  showed  inclina- 
tions. He  was  a  good  fellow  in  his  way  and  I  got 
to  like  his  square-toed  consciousness  of  deserved 
success.  It  was  not  difficult  for  me  to  renew  the 
acquaintance,  on  the  strength  of  his  former  service 
to  my  brother.  It  was  still  easier,  when  he  on 
the  strength  of  a  mysterious  rumor  clumsily  groped 
towards  a  confirmation  from  me  that  I  might  be 
persuaded  to  part  with  Whern,  to  feign  surprise, 
then  disinclination,  then  grudging  neutrality.  A 
few  more  meetings  and  I  had  promised  to  think 
the  matter  over  thoroughly  and  let  him  know 
within  a  week. 

"I  want  to  get  settled,  you  see,"  he  said  frankly, 


The  Passing  of  Whern         3*9 

"and  there  are  other  possibilities.  But  I  went 
down  to  Whern  when  first  I  heard  of  your — not 
wantmg  to  live  there,  and  I  liked  it,  liked  it  im- 
mensely.   So  did  Lady  Cleckheaton." 

"  He  is  really  a  nice  old  thing,"  I  said  to  Barbara. 
"And  he  never  once  sympathized  with  me,  which 
was  genuine  tact." 

"What  a  sentimental,  kindly  thing  you  are, 
Dick!"  she  laughed.  "I  doubt  if  anyone  exists 
more  ready  to  put  a  brave  face  on  beastliness." 

"Then  I  may  proceed?"  I  asked. 

She  paused  before  answering. 

"Let  us  go  down  to-morrow — just  we  two. 
Then  I'll  answer.  If  it's  too  lovely,  I  may  accept 
your  gift  after  all  and  the  'nice  old  thing'  can  go 
and  whistle  for  his  Whern." 

We  started  before  eight  o'clock.  The  carefully 
tended  roads  of  the  residential  suburbs  were  still 
resonant  with  milk-carts  and  only  dotted  by  the 
very  earliest  season-ticket  holders  hurrying  to 
their  trains.  Autumn  sunlight,  in  all  its  wistful 
serenity,  lay  caressingly  on  trees  brilliant  with 
reds  and  yellows.  As  I  sat  silent  at  the  wheel, 
intense  consciousness  of  my  companion  faded 
somewhat  into  the  waning  splendor  of  the  country- 


320  Privilege 

side.  I  pictured  the  Whern  towards  which  we  were 
hastening;  the  proud  melancholy  of  the  terraced 
woodland;  the  lovable  absurdity  of  the  Gothic 
Abbey,  divine  in  its  very  incongruity  as  it  sprawled 
there  in  the  heart  of  September  England.  My 
ancestors  seemed  to  rise  from  the  road  before  me, 
swaying  out  from  under  the  wheels  of  the  car,  and, 
as  they  melted  on  this  side  or  on  that  into  golden 
hedgerow  or  between  misty  tree-trunks,  casting 
looks  of  dumb  reproach  at  the  last  frivolous  Lord 
of  Whern,  who  was  ready  in  literal  truth  to  sell 
his  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  My  resolution 
wavered.  Why  should  I  do  this  heartless,  unim- 
aginative thing?  And  my  prophetic  sentiments 
of  a  few  weeks  ago  seemed  pompous  folly,  such 
as  a  man  might  use  to  cloak  weakness  or  greed 
or  selfish  treachery.  There  was  discomfort  in  the 
idea  that  I  was  trifling  with  a  betrayal  of  my 
family.  What,  after  all,  was  the  stature  of  com- 
mon sense  against  that  of  tradition?  Did  I  owe 
less  to  the  centuries  that  gave  me  life  and  quality 
of  mind  than  to  the  passing  distresses  of  my  own 
abnormal  lifetime?  I  saw  my  proposed  transac- 
tion with  Creevy  from  another  and  evil  angle.  I 
dared  to  throw  Whern  as  a  sop  to  the  Cerberus  of 
social  revolution.    And  to  what  end  ?    Not  to  pre- 


The  Passing  of  Whern         321 

vent  revolution;  not  to  guide  it  along  wiser  paths; 
merely  to  spare  myself  and  my  handful  of  relations 
a  possible  discomfort.  In  one  wanton  hour  I 
would  undo  all  and  more  than  all  for  which  Michael 
had  given  his  life.  Across  my  growing  abstraction 
floated  sullenly  the  wraith  of  Michael  as  I  had 
last  seen  him,  wrapped  in  a  linen  sheet  on  the 
huge  oak  table  of  the  great  hall  at  Whern,  his 
dead  limbs  rigid  in  their  shroud,  his  face  a  shat- 
tered cavity.  I  turned  cold  With  horror.  My 
hands  must  have  gri  oped  the  wheel  with  a  sudden 
senseless  violence,  f  >r  Barbara  ^ave  a  smothered 
cry,  and  I  woke  wit  i  a  start  to  reality.  The  car 
was  swerving  straigl  t  across  the  road  towards  the 
flimsy  railing  of  an  abandoned  quarry.  I  got  her 
round  by  an  inch  01  two  and,  when  the  crisis  was 
past,  pulled  up,  for  I  found  myself  trembling  and 
weak  as  after  fever. 

"I  thought  you  were  doing  for  both  of  us,"  said 
Barbara  calmly.    ' ' Were  you  asleep  ? ' ' 

"Not  asleep  exactly,"  I  replied,  "but  dreaming 
bad  dreams." 

We  started  on  our  way  once  more,  and  I  was 
careful  to  risk  no  repetition  of  disturbing  fancies 
I  found  it  possible  to  consider  the  arguments  for 
and  against  the  sale  of  Whern  in  a  proper  spirit 


ai 


322  Privilege 

of  detachment.  The  latter  I  summarized  to 
Barbara. 

' '  Is  this  devil's  advocacy  ? ' '  she  asked.  ' '  Or  have 
you  changed  your  mind?" 

' '  I  iiave  changed  my  mind  (if  ever  it  was  in  need 
of  change,  which  I  doubt),  but  I  have  not  changed 
my  heart." 

She  looked  at  me  suspiciously. 

"Don't  explain,"  she  said  shortly. 

I  smiled  and  made  no  reply.  The  car  purred 
on  its  way. 


in 


Whern  was  as  beautiful  as  I  had  ever  seen  it. 
There  is  poignant  pleasure  nowadays  in  the 
thought  that  my  last  glimpse  of  home  was  of 
mellow  and  gracious  calm.  We  sat  in  the  wan, 
cool  sunshine  on  a  fallen  block  of  masonry  between 
the  ruin  and  the  lake,  eating  our  sandwiches  and 
watching  the  sumptuous  colors  of  the  autumn 
woods  rising  behind  the  pale  crenellations  of  the 
Abbey  front.    At  last : 

"How  can  you  bear  to  lose  it?"  whispered 
Barbara. 

For  a  moment  longer  I  let  the  loveliness  of 


The  Passing  of  Whern         323 

Whern  and  the  love  I  felt  for  it  lull  in  their  arms 
my  now  irrevocable  resolution.  Grotesquely  I 
was  reminded  of  the  last  few  minutes  in  bed  on  a 
cold  and  busy  morning.  Then  I  thrust  from  me 
the  caress  and  indolence  of  romance.  On  the  way 
down  I  had  yielded  to  its  lure,  had  been  ready  to 
surrender  the  actual  to  the  ideal,  to  have  the  effect 
for  the  sake  of  the  cause.  But  no  sooner  had  the 
strange  trance  been  dispelled,  than  I  saw  that  the 
nobility  and  loyalty  which  had  called  so  urgently 
to  my  recently  ascendant  self  were  but  specious 
rhetoric.  More  clearly  than  ever  before  I  knew 
now  not  only  what  I  meant  to  do,  but  which  way 
duty  lay. 

"You  remember,"  I  began,  "the  arguments 
against  a  sale  of  Whern  with  which  I  bored  you 
this  morning?  You  accused  me  of  arguing  against 
conviction.  I  wasn't  doing  that  exactly.  Indeed, 
during  the  period  of  vagueness  which  nearly 
finished  us  both,  I  reached  the  point  of  admitting 
their  ultimate  validity.  In  short  I  changed  my 
mind.  Then  I  came  to  and  began  to  think  on 
the  other  side.  The  results  were  feeble — cash  and 
freedom  from  anxiety  and  a  new  kind  of  inverted 
snobbery  —  the  snobbery  of  unobtrusiveness. 
Understand?    So,  my  mind  stayed  changed.    My 


324  Privilege 

brain  is  more  than  opposed  to  any  alienation  from 
Whern ;  it  insists  on  my  living  here,  on  my  playing 
out  the  comedy  of  the  landed  aristocrat  until  the 
curtain  is  rung  down  forcibly  by  the  hostility  of  a 
new  order.  Would  you  approve  of  that?  Do  you 
support  my  brain?" 

"Against ?" 

"Precisely.  Against  what?  And  it  sounds  so 
damned  priggish  to  say  'heart.'  Let  me  say  in- 
stead 'against  every  desire  and  instinct  that  I 
possess.'" 

Suddenly  she  turned  and  laid  two  hands  on  my 
shoulders.    Looking  me  straight  in  the  eyes — 

"You  mean  me?"  she  said. 

"I  do,"  I  replied,  and  kissed  her  full  and  eager 
lips. 

She  did  not  move;  merely  drew  back  an  inch 
or  two  and  spoke  into  my  very  face. 

"Dick,  you  are  a  darling  and  a  gentleman.  I 
am  only  a  useless  creature  who  has  tried  to  help 
and  failed.  Now  is  another  chance.  Listen  to  me 
and  I  will  tell  you  what  shall  be  done." 

Perhaps  it  was  an  impulse  to  secure  freedom 
cf  judgment  that  prompted  me.  I  took  her  hands, 
pressed  them  to  my  lips,  and,  rising,  stood  in 
front  of  her.    She  pouted  a  little. 


The  Passing  of  Whern         325 

"Mayn't  I  touch  you?" 

"  It  isn't  that.  You  know  it  isn't.  Go  on  with 
your  instructions." 

"Not  until  you  sit  down."  Then  pleadingly: 
"Please,  Dick,  be  merciful.  I  won't  hang  round 
your  neck." 

I  paid  the  expected  tribute  of  a  smile  to  her  out- 
ward flippancy ;  to  the  deeper  impulse  that  glowed 
in  her  wide  eyes  I  gave  obedience.    She  resumed: 

"Once  upon  a  time  you  asked  me  to  run  away 
with  you.  You  were  willing  to  face  divorce  and 
scandal.  Now  you  are  preparing  to  make  a  similar 
request  for  quite  opposite  reasons.  A  widow  is 
as  marriageable  as  any  virgin.  Only  in  my  case 
there  are  difficulties.  Therefore  you  mean  to 
emigrate — to  wherever  those  difficulties  do  not 
exist.  Therefore  you  want  to  cut  loose.  Therefore 
you  want  to  sell  Whern." 

I  was  embarrassed  and  amazed  at  her  perception. 

"Please  go  on,"  I  said,  a  little  breathlessly. 

"All  that  this  means,"  she  continued  (and  the 
crispness  of  her  voice  became  a  level  gentleness 
that  spoke  of  rising  emotion),  "is  that  you  regard 
me  and  Whern  as  alternatives.  And  you  want  me 
most.  Well,  dear  Richard,  it  is  not  loving  a  man 
to  be  an  alternative  to  his  real  existence.    Here  is 


326  Privilege 

Whern  and  here  am  I.  Put  me  somewhere  incon- 
spicuous and  keep  us  both " 

"Barbara!"  Self -contempt  overwhelmed  me. 
I  was  abased  before  her  splendid  generosity,  as 
one  evening  long  ago,  I  had  been  abased  before 
my  brother.  The  next  instant  I  felt  nervous  fury 
at  the  condescension  of  fate.  Was  I  so  wretched  a 
thing  that  even  human  pride  took  pity  on  me  ? 

"When  you  insult  yourself, — "  I  began  angrily. 

But  rage  lasted  no  longer  than  self -scorn.  I  was 
aware  suddenly  of  the  immense  surrender  that 
her  love  made  possible  to  her. 

"Sweetheart,  what  is  to  be  said?  Thank  you? 
Hardly.  But  you  are  great  enough  to  understand 
what  I  am  not  great  enough  to  say.  But  at  least 
I  am  not  so  small  as  to  endure  another  word." 
I  took  her  arm  and  spoke  close  to  her  glowing 
cheek:  "Never  again  shall  you  even  think  such  a 
thing.  As  for  Whern,  the  problem  is  solved.  Let 
us  go.    We  shall  never  come  here  any  more." 

I  rose  and  walked  quickly  across  the  grass 
towards  the  car.  As  I  cranked  up,  I  saw  that  she 
had  risen  also  and  was  approaching  listlessly  and 
with  bowed  head. 

For  a  long  time  she  did  not  speak.  The  car 
with  its  load  of  dead  ideals  crept  Londonwards. 


The  Passing  of  Whern         327 

In  full  reaction  from  the  fervor  of  devotion  into 
which  I  had  been  thrown  by  Barbara's  last  and 
noblest  altruism,  I  brooded  miserably  over  the 
passing  of  Whern.  A  chapter  was  over,  a  chapter 
of  folly  and  arrogance  and  sin,  but  at  the  same 
time  one  of  courage  and  dignity.  The  heedless, 
chaotic  world  would  reel  on  its  way,  and  the  wreck 
of  Braden  pass  unnoticed  by  all  save  the  handful 
of  survivors  struggling  on  spars  and  in  small 
boats  to  an  alien  shore.  It  was  a  pretty  record — 
the  final  stage  of  the  Braden  peerage.  "Harold, 
fourth  Viscount  Whern,  was  shot  in  his  own 
demesne  by  the  brother  of  a  girl  he  had  seduced. 
.  .  .  Michael,  fifth  Viscount  Whern,  killed  him- 
self in  despair  after  a  few  years'  struggle  against 
the  faults  of  an  elder  (and  a  younger)  brother. 
.  .  .  Richard,  sixth  Viscount  Whern,  guilty  in 
all  but  actual  fact  of  an  intrigue  with  his  brother's 
wife,  sold  the  ancestral  house,  and  fled  the  country, 
because  he  dared  not  face  the  future,  and  because 
to  him  passion  was  more  than  honor.  .  .  ." 
Bitterly  I  framed  in  some  such  words  as  these  the 
concluding  sentences  of  the  history  of  Braden 
that  a  painstaking  bookmaker  of  a  century  hence 
could  surely  compile.  Then  Barbara  spoke,  and 
I  got  ready  to  continue  playing  my  futile  part. 


328  Privilege 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Richard?  Tell  me 
as  exactly  as  you  can." 

Her  voice  was  perfectly  calm,  but  lifeless  and 
so  indifferent  that  I  glanced  nervously  towards 
her.  She  was  sitting  back  and  down  into  the  seat, 
as  though  broken  with  extreme  weariness.  Her 
eyes  were  heavy  and  sad,  and  her  sullen  mouth 
drooped  in  fatigue.  When  I  replied,  it  was  with 
a  mechanical  aloofness  suited  to  her  mood. 

"I  shall  hand  over  to  the  lawyers  the  entire 
business  of  the  sale.  They  will  have  instructions 
for  the  disposal  of  the  money  if  the  transaction  is 
completed.  If  it  is  not — so  much  the  worse,  but 
I  refuse  to  spoil  your  life  or  my  own  by  useless 
waiting.  Almost  at  once  I  shall  go  abroad.  It 
will  be  necessary  for  me  to  turn  into  some  incredi- 
ble form  of  dago.  In  due  course  I  shall  send  you 
word  and  you  will  join  me.    It  is  quite  simple." 

"Am  I  to  be  Viscountess  Whern,  new  and  pirated 
edition?"  she  asked. 

I  winced  at  the  misery  of  her  sarcasm. 

"No,  child,"  I  replied  softly.  "You  will  be 
Mrs.  Richard  Braden." 

For  a  little  while  she  was  silent.  Then  whim- 
sically : 

"Poor  Anthony!" 


The  Passing  of  Whern         329 

"Keep  your  pity  for  your  son,  sweetheart, 
although  even  on  him  it  may  be  wasted.  He  could 
fight  to  revive  the  cursed  thing  if  he  cares  to. 
Whether  he  will  succeed  no  one  can  say.  Few 
things  are  more  difficult  to  kill  than  an  un- 
wanted title,  or  to  revive  than  an  extinct  one." 

We  threaded  a  raucous  way  through  the  drays 
and  tram-cars  of  the  western  suburbs.  At  her 
door  Barbara  got  out.  She  turned  on  the  pave- 
ment and  leant  a  moment  on  the  car  side.  Her 
eyes  were  raised  piteously  to  mine. 

"Richard,"  she  whispered,  "please,  please. 
...     I  do  so  wish  it!" 

"I  forbade  you  so  much  as  to  imagine  that 
dreadful  thing  again,"  I  said  roughly.  "Oblige 
me  by  putting  it  out  of  your  head." 

And  I  leant  forward  to  start  the  engine. 

"It's   terrible!"    she   began,    "I    cannot   bear 

>> 

At  a  quick  glance  from  me  she  drew  herself 
together  and  stepped  back  from  the  car. 

"Good-bye,  Richard,"  she  said  quietly.  "I 
shall  be  ready  when  you  wish  it." 

As  I  glided  from  the  curb  I  looked  back.  She 
was  still  standing  by  the  railing  of  her  tiny  house, 
proud  and  beautiful,  but  the  face  that  topped  the 


330  Privilege 

furs  coiled  about  her  shoulders  was  set  with  suffer- 
ing, and  in  the  eyes  was  desperate  pleading.  I 
wrenched  my  head  away  and  drove  rapidly  east- 
ward. In  that  evil  moment  it  seemed  that  I 
might  never  see  her  again;  that  I  had  that  day 
set  eyes  for  the  last  time  both  on  my  inheritance 
and  on  the  woman  for  whose  sake  I  had  aban- 
doned it. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LOVE  IN  WINTERTIME 


I  left  London  in  November  and  arrived  without 
incident  in  Florence.  The  choice  of  refuge  had 
proved  sadly  limited,  but  I  was  grateful,  at  once 
for  the  possibility  of  Italy,  and  for  the  abnormal 
circumstance  that  allowed  me  to  go  there  in  that 
last  winter  of  Europe's  torment.  I  only  stayed 
long  enough  in  the  city  to  set  on  foot  the  legal 
processes  necessary  to  my  happiness.  Then  I  re- 
tired to  Lucca  and,  in  a  charming  house  against 
the  northern  ramparts,  settled  into  obscurity  to 
serve  my  years  for  Rachel.  But  I  was  hardly 
installed  when  the  disaster  of  Caparetto  hurled 
into  my  solitude  the  piteous  flood  of  homeless  and 
orphans  from  the  tortured  north.  Lucca  became 
a  turmoil.  With  a  dull  rage  against  this  infusion 
of  war  and  its  senselessness  into  my  secret  pur- 
gatory, I  did  what  lay  in  my  power  to  help  suffer- 

331 


332  Privilege 

ing  innocence.  Probably  I  was  always  a  war-hater, 
but  contact  with  Mary  and  her  theories  had  in 
England  set  me  in  opposition  to  those  who  pro- 
claimed, in  security  and  without  elegance,  their 
unpopular  beliefs.  Now,  in  the  surge  of  Lucca 
and  its  misery,  I  went  to  the  other  extreme  and 
even  wrote  to  Mary  a  long  letter  of  recanta- 
tion. It  was  never  posted — I  had  too  bitter 
a  respect  for  the  Censorship — but  it  reflected  a 
mood.  With  the  passing  of  time  and  the  slow 
return  of  my  solitude  to  its  wistful  beauty, 
the  one  indignation  showed  itself  as  transitory 
as  the  other,  and  I  came  to  a  truer  sense  of 
the  tragedy  of  our  time.  I  understood  that  what 
the  old  England  died  to  save,  but  lost,  was  what 
Michael  died  to  save,  but  came  too  late  even  to 
possess,  beyond  the  narrow  borders  of  his  own 
idealism. 

Letters  passed  between  me  and  Barbara  with 
moderate  regularity.  Hers  brought  me  news  of 
home  doings  and,  more  precious,  those  words  that 
come  hardly  to  the  English  even  when  they  love. 
These  latter  are  so  manifestly  my  own  that  I 
make  no  apology  for  their  suppression ;  the  former, 
justifiable  enough  as  part  of  this  record  of  family, 
I  prefer,  now  at  its  eleventh  hour,  to  leave  untold. 


Love  in  Wintertime  333 

There  is  precedent  for  such  omission,  and  that 
my  conception  of  autobiography  is  capricious  my 
treatment  of  war  narrative  has  already  but  too 
clearly  shown. 

Wearily  the  time  passed.  She  grew  impatient. 
The  vivid  Italian  spring  merged  into  heat  un- 
bearable. I  sought  such  relief  as  conditions  of 
my  residence  allowed.  She  wrote  imploringly; 
life  was  intolerable;  would  I,  for  mere  prudery, 
condemn  her  to  more  months  of  suffering? 
The  cruelty  hurt,  but  not  so  keenly  as  my  pity 
for  her  loneliness.  Into  my  reply  went  all  the 
tenderness,  all  the  passion  that  I  had  for  her. 
By  the  sanctity  of  our  love  I  begged  her  to 
endure.  Her  answer,  delayed  many  weeks,  was 
of  a  few  words  only,  but  words  of  such  hu- 
mility and  gentleness  that  they  were  as  a 
faint,  suppliant  gesture  of  her  hand.  Only  in 
silence  could  my  heart  be  hardened.  I  wrote  no 
more. 

At  last,  unbelievably,  came  release.  My  term 
was  served.  She  must  start  on  her  journey.  She 
had  started  and  was  coming  to  marry  me.  I  set 
out  to  meet  her  in  Milan.  It  was  in  a  cold  and 
snow-bound  city  that,  with  slow  delight,  I  staged 
the  first  scene  of  my  real  life. 


334  Privilege 

ii 

Outside  the  barrier  I  mingled  with  the  aimless 
miscellany  which  seems  at  all  hours  to  throng  a 
great  station.  A  faint  copper-colored  mist  hovered 
in  the  shadowy  vaulting  of  the  roof,  around  the 
pendant  arc-lights,  across  the  high  tier  of  lighted 
windows  that  overlooked  the  spaces  of  the  station. 
Far  to  the  left  an  engine  hissed;  a  hand-truck 
clattered  towards  the  luggage  hall.  Stragglers  in 
black  coats,  with  black  portfolios  clutched  in  black 
gloves,  trickled  through  the  gate  of  one  of  the  out- 
going suburban  platforms.  The  bland  face  of  the 
huge  clock  registered  half -past  ten.  The  place 
seemed  to  be  turning  and  muttering  in  its  sleep, 
so  unreal  were  the  noises  and  activity.  It  was 
cold  in  the  station.  I  shivered  and  began  to  walk. 
Groups  of  soldiers  in  gray-green  slouched  past  the 
window  of  my  abstraction.  The  copper-colored 
mist  surged,  thickened,  and  dispersed  again.  They 
were  like  the  noises  of  the  sea — the  far,  far  noises 
of  this  echoing  place.  The  hands  of  the  clock 
moved  idly  forward.  A  quarter  to  eleven.  I 
collided  with  a  woman  carrying  a  large  basket. 
Interchange  of  courtesies.  Through  the  door  of 
the  consigne  I  saw  shelves  like  the  shelves  of  a 


Love  in  Wintertime  335 

catacomb.  They  were  laden  with  absurd  lug- 
gage— rugs  in  straps;  queer,  shiny  valises;  crude, 
sharp-cornered  yellow  trunks.  To  my  freakish 
mood  these  seemed  the  bodies  of  the  spirits  that 
thronged  this  eerie  cave.  I  had  the  idea  that 
to-morrow  they  would  have  been  fetched  away 
and  be  walking  about  Milan  like  ordinary  re- 
spectable men  and  women.  Like  me — and  Bar- 
bara. Barbara  was  coming.  A  sudden  vision  of 
her,  as  I  had  seen  her  last,  lit  my  foolish  brain 
like  a  searchlight.  The  patient  dignity  of  her 
attitude,  the  suffering  in  her  eyes  .  .  .  All  that 
was  over  now.  Triumph  surged  through  me  and 
the  phantoms  of  my  brooding  dissolved  into  the 
mist  that  curled  above  my  head.  To-morrow  she 
would  belong  to  me.  We  would  drive  away  to- 
gether, just  she  and  I,  to  our  flat,  to  our  marriage- 
bed.  Italy — war-worn  and  distraught,  but  forever 
the  land  of  lovers — would  croon  her  age-long 
epithalamy. 

A  bell  clanged.  The  sluggish  officials  quickened 
to  eagerness.  I  moved  towards  the  barrier.  From 
the  darkness  beyond  the  station  roof  emerged  a 
black  bulk  crowned  with  steam.  The  steam  bil- 
lowed and  swelled  until  it  seemed  a  tidal  wave 
bearing  down  upon  me.     From  the  heart  of  it 


336  Privilege 

glared  a  single  eye.  Passengers  dropped  pain- 
fully from  the  train,  as  though  squeezed  out  of  a 
tube.  The  vanguard  of  bag-laden  porters  reached 
the  barrier.  Figures,  strange  figures,  drifted  past 
me;  they  ignored  me  so  utterly  and  were  them- 
selves to  me  so  trivial  that  I  felt  gifted  with 
invisibility.  More  figures  slowly  passing,  more 
strange  figures. 

Then  I  saw  her,  waved  to  her,  ran  to  meet  her, 
felt  her  hands  in  mine.  But  from  the  wave-crest  of 
my  emotion  the  devil  of  ridicule  raised  his  head. 
The  love  I  had  for  her,  the  love  I  longed  to  speak 
aloud,  choked  me.  What  was  I  after  all,  but 
Richard  Braden  meeting  his  brother's  widow  at 
a  railway  station?  I  bent  over  her  hands. 
"I  hope  you  have  had  a  good  journey?" 
"I  got  a  smut  in  my  eye,"  she  said. 

in 

The  car  stole  through  the  white  streets,  its  noise 
muted  by  the  blanket  of  silence  that  lay  upon  the 
city.  If  we  spoke,  our  remarks  had  best  have 
remained  unsaid,  so  impertinent  were  they  to  the 
splendor  of  the  hour.  This  atmosphere  of  balked 
emotion  brooded  and  brooded  over  me.  A  sleep- 
less night,   the   tedious  mechanism  of  marriage 


Love  in  Wintertime  337 

should  have  broken  this  miserable  reserve.  But 
I  was  as  speechless,  as  frozen,  as  when  I  had  left 
her  at  her  hotel  the  night  before,  as  when  I  had 
called  for  her  that  very  afternoon,  as  when  to- 
gether we  had  emerged  from  the  meager  ceremony 
that  had  been  so  hardly  won;  as  when,  in  foolish 
flight  from  our  own  gaucherie,  we  had  dined  amid 
the  gilt  and  glitter  of  a  huge  restaurant  and  en- 
dured the  vaporings  of  stage  romance.  At  the 
flat  supper  was  awaiting  us.  I  sat  and  looked  at 
her.  Where  her  hair  swept  back  over  her  ears,  it 
shone  like  polished  copper ;  the  triangles  of  brilliant 
light,  one  on  each  side  of  the  broad  white  parting, 
held  my  vision  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  Her 
head  hovered  against  the  darkness  like  a  giant 
moth  with  burnished  wings.  The  constraint  was 
terrible.  The  room  with  its  somber  privacy  was 
alive  with  passion;  only  we  two  were  dead.  The 
candles  flickered  and  the  whiteness  of  her  throat 
quivered  from  darkness  to  light,  from  light  to 
darkness  again.  The  shadows  crept  closer.  I  felt 
her  slipping  from  me.  The  candles  would  flicker 
out  and  leave  only  emptiness.  Already  she  was 
curling  upwards  with  the  smoke  of  her  cigarette, 
curling  upwards  and  fading  into  mist.  In  agony 
I  cried  out: 


33$  Privilege 

"Barbara!" 

She  did  not  move.  Her  head  still  drooped  over 
her  plate,  her  hand  still  lay  relaxed  upon  the 
cloth.  I  realized  I  had  made  no  sound.  Was  she 
suffering  this  same  misery? 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  me. 
Her  eyes  were  dark  with  longing. 

"Dick,"  she  whispered. 

With  what  seemed  an  effort  of  physical  strength 
I  rose,  ran  to  her,  and,  dropping  on  my  knees, 
put  my  arms  about  her.  I  felt  her  hand  caress  my 
hair.  Her  touch  snapped  the  chain  of  idiot 
speechlessness. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  to  think  that  it  has  come!" 

"It  was  bound  to  come,  darling." 

"  I  love  you,  I  love  you  .  .  .  Child,  there  is  no 
end  now  .    .    .   always  and  always." 

"I  am  ready,  sweetheart." 

"We  played  the  game,  Barbara." 

"God  bless  you,  Dick." 

We  rose  and  stood  trembling,  each  leaning  a 
little  towards  the  other. 

"I  cannot  even  carry  you  to  bed,  princess.  See 
what  a  pitiful  creature!" 

She  smiled  through  tears. 

"You  have  not  kissed  me  yet — properly." 


Love  in  Wintertime  339 

I  took  her  dear  shoulders  in  my  hands  and  held 
her  at  arm's  length. 

"Dearest  heart,  I  starve  for  you,  but  ..." 

"I  understand,"  she  said,  and  slipped  from  the 
room. 

I  blew  out  the  candles  and  went  to  the  window. 
The  clocks  of  the  city  were  striking  midnight  and 
I  exulted  that  the  new  day  should  find  Barbara 
here  in  my  house  and  myself  thus  complete.  The 
trees  far  below  threw  a  film  of  white  between  me 
and  the  trodden  slush  of  the  pavement.  Across  the 
shoulder  of  an  intervening  block  I  saw  the  pin- 
nacles of  the  Cathedral.  The  violet  glare  of  hidden 
street  lamps  threw  its  pretentious  bulk  askew,  and 
it  looked  like  a  white-haired  giant,  bound  and 
helpless,  tilted  against  the  sky  in  the  center  of  a 
funeral  pyre.  I  saw  in  it  a  symbol  of  my  dead  life, 
monstrous  and  too  ornate,  abandoned  to  the  flames 
of  a  new  and  splendid  happiness. 

A  door  clicked  behind  me.  On  the  threshold  of 
her  room,  silhouetted  against  its  brilliance,  stood 
Barbara.  She  wore  a  dark  wrap,  and  her  hair 
hung  loose  about  her  shoulders. 

THE  END 


ERIK  DORN 

BY 

BEN  HECHT 

H.  L.  MENCKEN  says: 

"Disorderly,  iconoclastic  and  novel  in  form, 
'Dorn'  is  one  of  the  most  stimulating  and  orig- 
inal stories  I  have  encountered  in  many  days. 
It  would  be  hard  to  exceed  the  brilliancy  of 
some  of  its  episodes.  It  has  upon  me  the 
effect  of  a  gaudy  and  fantastic  panorama,  in 
which  the  movement  is  almost  acrobatic  and 
the  color  is  that  of  a  Kaleidoscope." 

BURTON  RASCOE  says: 

"Ben  Hecht,  among  all  the  young  men  of  the 
post-war  generation  of  American  Novelists, 
has,  it  seems  to  me,  the  most  opulent  equip- 
ment in  the  matter  of  intelligence,  experience 
and  imaginative  power.  The  verbal  patterns, 
the  pungently  evocative  word  combinations, 
the  strange  richness  of  metaphor  of  'Erik 
Dorn,'  if  for  no  other  reason,  cause  it  to  stand 
out  as  a  distinct  new  model  in  mechanics  of 
expression." 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


The  Comedienne 

by 
Wladyslaw  Stanislaw  Reymont 

HE  COMEDIENNE;'  the 
first  novel  to  be  translated  into 
English  from  the  pen  of  this 
distinguished  Polish  author,  who  has 
been  called  the  second  Sienkiewicz,  is 
the  tale  of  a  Polish  girl  who  rebels 
against  her  drab  existence  in  a  remote 
hamlet,  and  joins  a  company  of  provin- 
cial players.  Against  the  colorful 
background  of  this  theatrical  life  her 
tragic  story  is  woven. 

The  provincial  players  of  Poland  are 
sometimes  colloquially  called  "Come- 
dians." The  word,  however,  does  not 
characterize  a  comedy  actor  only,  for 
the  provincials  play  every  conceivable 
role.  And  such  a  "Comedienne"  was 
Janina. 

The  character  and  development  of 
this  strange  young  Slavic  woman,  and 
the  settings  and  personalities  of  her 
environment,  are  described  with  graphic 
strength  by  Wladyslaw  Reymont. 


r 


CONQUEST 


BY 

GERALD  O'DONOVAN 

An  absorbing  novel  of  present-day  Ire- 
land— the  country  that  has  been  illustrat- 
ed, condemned,  and  defended  in  a  myriad 
of  stories,  but  never  explained.  Never 
has  the  complexity  of  her  feud  with  Eng- 
land been  stated  more  fairly  than  in 
Conquest.  Here  is  the  same  lack  of 
compromise  in  workmanship  that  dis- 
tinguished the  author's  Father  Ralph  a  few 
seasons  ago. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


REVOLUTION 

A  STORY  OF  THE  NEAR 
FUTURE  IN  ENGLAND 

BY 
J.  D.  BERESFORD 


An  intensely  moving  story,  perhaps  prophetic 
— certainly  it  seems  so,  with  its  vivid  sweeping 
power  and  its  overmastering  sense  of  inevitability. 
This  is  in  no  way  a  picture  of  the  past;  it  is  the 
story  of  a  great  general  strike  which  paralyzes 
the  industry,  yes,  the  whole  life,  of  the  nation, 
and  of  counter-revolution  reestablishing  the  old 
but  by  then  disintegrated  and  disabled  order  of 
things.  Such  may  be  the  situation  in  sections 
of  Russia  to-day,  but  Mr.  Beresford's  book  brings 
it  much  nearer  home. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  LONDON 


J 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


KM«  2  3  1950 


r-r»     0. 


Form  L9-25m-9,'47(A5G18)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CAT  ?FORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


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AA    000  378  418 


in  ii 


PR 

6037 

S126p 


3  1158  011 


69 


5300 


ill!!!!  ! 


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